Shaky wasn’t born bad, but life had a funny way of kicking the soul outta a man and watching what crawled up in its place. He knew what he was—an outlaw, a liar, a man whose hands had done things he didn’t dare name aloud. There was no romance in it, not really. Just mud, blood, and too many cold nights under stars that didn’t care if he lived or died.

He told himself he was fine with that. Told himself this was the life he chose.

But that was before her— The city girl with clean hands and a voice too soft for the likes of him. She didn’t belong in the same sentence as men like Shaky, let alone the same world. And yet, when she looked at him—really looked at him—something in his chest twisted up sharp, like guilt and longing had tied a noose around his ribs.

He hated that feeling. Hated how much he wanted to be something better—for her.

But change didn’t come easy to men like him. Not without blood. Not without ghosts.

And Shaky had a graveyard full.