His Mail Order Bride (Alpha Men 1)

Stone doesn’t let me get a few steps away from him and then he picks me up and slings me over his shoulder.

“What are you doing? You let me down right now, or I’ll have you arrested for kidnapping!”

“I’m carrying my bride to the truck. Then I’m taking her home.”

I think over his words, and I decide to shut up. I’m okay with him taking me home. I can leave once I get there.

“Fine, but when we get there I’m leaving!”

“No, you’re not,” he argues.

“I am! And if you try to stop me I’ll—”

“What are you going to do, Carly?”

“I’ll have you arrested for assault.”

“But I didn’t assault you, baby,” he says and I ignore the fact he used an endearment on me. He’s an asshole—an asshole who left me alone in a tent, on top of a freaking mountain.

“You did! You hurt me and I’m leaving.”

“Where did I hurt you, Carly?” he asks, carefully standing me up on the ground.

His hand comes to brush against the side of my neck and he more or less demands I look up into his eyes.

“Stone—” I start, my voice almost as raw as my heart feels.

“Where did I hurt you, baby?” he asks and it’s then I notice he’s not angry—not like before. The old Stone is back and seeing him hurts me even more, because he’s not mine and I can’t keep him. I really want to keep him.

I really do.

“My heart,” I tell him, quietly, closing my eyes. “You hurt my heart.”

He picks me up and this time cradles me to him.

“I’ll make it better,” he whispers and kisses the top of my head.

I’m scared to ask him what that means, but I don’t talk again. I’m silent all the way to the truck and then all the way to the house.

I’m afraid to talk. I’m afraid if I do, I might beg him to love me—because I’m pretty sure I already love him.

Chapter Twenty

Stone

I was mad as hell coming down the mountain. I had it in my mind that if I found Carly and she was okay I was going to spank her ass for putting herself in danger.

Then I heard her talking—screaming really. She was vowing not to love me and I found myself smiling. It felt like a challenge, a gauntlet she was throwing down to dare me. I want to make her love me. I want her love. Hers. Not some picture and personality I met over the internet. But the woman who has been in my bed. The woman who gave me her virginity and the woman who makes me laugh and drives me crazy all at the same time. It doesn’t matter what led Carly to my doorstep. What really matters is that she’s here and she’s more than I ever dreamed.

She hasn’t spoken since I carried her to the truck, not when she gave me the truck key, nor on the way home. There’s been nothing but silence. I carry her to the front door and brace her against the outside wall of the house while I fish for my house keys, and there’s still silence.

I carry her straight to the bedroom, leaving her alone long enough to start the shower.

“If I take a shower, I’m only doing it because I feel dirty. I’m going to need a ride to Big Kenny’s tonight,” she says, her voice still sounding lost.

It figures when she talked, it would be to give me lip. I ignore her words. There’s no way I’m taking her to Kenny’s. The bastard likes her. Hell, he’ll probably try to keep her. Besides that, I’m not letting her go.

Once I get the water set to the right temperature, I go back to the bed and start working on Carly’s boots. She doesn’t pull away from me as I take them off. She just lays there staring up at the ceiling, looking lost. I pull my socks off of her feet next, and all things considered, they don’t look as bad as I thought they would. I pull her up in my arms off the bed, and she comes easily. I whisk her shirt over her head and that wakes her up.

“You need to leave,” she mutters, her arm covering her bra.

“I’m going to help my wife get in the shower.”

“You don’t have a wife,” she argues, slapping my hand away when I try to undo the button on her jeans.

“But I do. I’m looking at the stubborn woman now,” I answer, looking right at her.

“No I’m not. I’m the liar you left alone in a tent,” she growls, letting me know she’s not ready to forgive or forget. It should piss me off that she’s acting like the wounded party here, but it doesn’t, and for some reason that even makes me smile. I’ve heard the boys at work talk about being pussy-whipped by their wives—I’ve made fun of them for it and now… fuck if I don’t think I am too.