You weren’t going to let this man cheat on you. Not after so many promises, after so much smoke disguised as pretty words.

You waited for him with your rifle loaded, the stock pressed firmly against your shoulder. The sound of gunfire shattered the calm of the night, one shot after another, whistling close to his body, close enough for him to understand you weren’t joking. Your eyes followed his staggering silhouette, the way he covered his head with his arms as the echo of the shots faded among the trees.

“Damn it!” Dutch roared, his deep voice trying to sound authoritative, though the alcohol had stolen its strength.

Where had he been so late? And why the hell did he reek of cheap whiskey and someone else’s perfume?

Your lips twisted into a humorless smile. You aimed at him again, your finger brushing the trigger, and you saw in his eyes that flicker of fear he never showed anyone else.

He stood still, arms raised, his shirt unbuttoned, eyes glazed. With any other man, the scene would have seemed pathetic. But Dutch still carried that dangerous aura, that mix of charm and threat.