Page 25 of Chaos (The Serenity Ranch #2)

She storms across the yard, and an ominous feeling settles in his gut.

He doesn’t recognize it as fear until she jumps.

The next morning, I’m fumbling around in the dark, trying to get dressed, when there’s a knock on the trapdoor.

Figuring it must be Yasmin—everyone I’m related to would’ve just barged in unannounced—I glance down at my sports bra and shorts, and decide she won’t care about a little cleavage and midriff.

As I stoop to haul open the trapdoor, the harsh overhead light from the hall downstairs invades the attic and impedes my vision, so it takes a second for me to realize I was wrong.

Go fucking figure.

My eyes adjust just in time to see Finn’s open mouth abruptly shutting. And to catch him eyeballing my chest just a second too long to call it an accident before averting his gaze to safer territory—my not even a little bit bashful face. I’m not shy. Not like he apparently is.

“Do you have something against shirts?”

I do, actually. Seams and tags, if we’re being specific. The overall concept of being clothed, if we’re being really, really specific, but I’m well-versed in rhetorical questions.

Straightening up, I grab the tank top strewn on my dresser. “Happy now?” I ask without caring about the answer as I slip the white material over my head and tug it down my torso, wondering if Finn knows I can see him in the mirror, staring at the backs of my bare thighs.

The burn of his gaze is there, and then it isn’t. Dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling, he blows out a long breath. “You gonna drive with us today?”

I wasn’t planning on it. I’m wearing athletic shorts for a reason—yesterday, without my brother picking up my nephew to use an excuse, I got up an hour early and ran all the way to the main house.

Was it good for the ankle that refuses to heal? No.

Was it good for my head? Yes.

Did it remind me of running track in high school, which then brought me down the fairly dim path of why I stopped running track?

Yes. Yes, it did.

But I was still planning on doing the same thing today. I still am . I’m not in the mood to be trapped in a tight space with people who always speak in quiet, cautious voices around me and a man who thinks I’m the kind of girl who would befriend the fucking Webers.

Climbing another few rungs of the ladder, he plants his palms on the attic floor, and I momentarily get distracted by the rippling muscles beneath yet another obscenely tight compression shirt before I remember I’m as mad at him as he is at me. “Can we talk please?”

I focus on my reflection, not the one just to the left and behind me, as I fix my hair into a ponytail. “We did talk.”

“Properly, Lottie.”

I huff. “Will you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Saying my name like that. Like I’m a fucking child or a nuisance or something.”

“I—” He starts only to stop just as quickly, gnawing on his bottom lip for a moment before trying again. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Well,” I drawl sarcastically. “As long as you didn’t mean to.”

His sigh echoes around the attic, punctuated by the sound of his feet hitting the floorboards.

Scooping up my Brooks from where I kicked them off after running home last night—an infinitely more shit idea than running there, by the way, considering I was already dead-tired, but at least I had an endless well of stubbornness to draw energy from—I sit on the edge of my bed. “Get out. I don’t want to talk.”

“Well, I do.”

The mattress dips beside me, so deeply I have to brace my hands against it so I don’t roll into Finn’s big, infuriating body. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly as I stare at my bouncing knees. “Ignoring you was childish.”

That’s not what I was really mad about, but I nod sharply anyway and hope that that’s it, that he’ll go away.

He doesn't.

“What I said—”

“You didn’t mean it?” I interrupt dryly. “You’re sorry?”

“No, I meant it.” At least he looks a little flustered to admit it. “But I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said it, not like that.”

Like that. Internally, I roll my eyes. I’ve suffered a lifetime of shitty apologies, and that… well, at least I can tell he meant it.

Externally, I shrug. “You can say whatever you want, however you want. I don’t care what you think about me, Finn. Your opinion doesn’t keep me up at night.”

Quickly shoving my socked feet into my shoes and tying my laces, I pick up the bag packed with my work clothes and stand. I only make it half a step towards the door before thick fingers loop around my wrist.

“Hey.” A thumb brushes the delicate skin just above my unfortunately racing pulse. “I’m sorry, princess.”

I stare at his hand for a second. At the gentle way he cradles mine. At the prominent veins running beneath dark skin, and the short nails I watched my nephew paint red only a few afternoons ago.

They’re chipped now. Cracked. Because he was picking at that nail polish as he picked me apart.

I rip my hand away out of his grip. “I don’t care,” I bite out as I move to leave again, and this time, he doesn’t stop me. “I never cared in the first place.”

Even from a distance, I can tell my brother is being weird.

I frown at his downturned mouth as I free my hair from the bun I threw it into while showering off a particularly angsty run, tucking it behind my ears before rolling up the sleeves of the shirt I put on over a clean tank.

Looping my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans, my fingers tap nervously against my thighs as I drag my feet in Jackson’s direction, moving slow because I really don’t want to find out whatever the twisted look on his face is about.

Not until I get a little closer do I recognize who’s standing beside him, with his back to me, and that’s when that bad feeling in my gut turns to pure and utter dread. Because if Jackson is looking like that while talking to Van de Dickless, only one cause comes to mind.

“You’re not getting rid of him.”

As my shout echoes across the yard, Jackson’s face contorts even more, and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.

“No fucking way, Oscar.”

The man who we only ever call by his first name when he really deserves it winces. “Just listen for a sec, baby girl.”

“Don’t baby girl me,” I hiss, fists curled at my sides as I resist the urge to throw them at my brother. “You're not getting rid of Ruin.”

“His behavioral issues are complex,” Van de Soon To Be Dead chimes in, nose lifted in a way that makes it real fucking obvious he thinks I’m a child who shouldn’t even be seen, let alone heard. “He isn’t a safe animal. This isn’t the right place for him.”

“Like fuck it isn’t.”

“Listen, kid—”

Jackson winces again.

“I’m not a kid , fuckhead. And that horse isn’t going anywhere.” I turn to my brother, as close to dropping to my knees and begging as I’m ever likely to get. “ Oscar .”

“It would just be for a little while. We’ll get him some help and then he can come back, okay?”

“ No .”

“Lottie, he’s not happy in that stall. No one can ride him—we can barely go near him. He needs someone who can help him.”

“I can help him.”

Jackson drops his chin, his expression rife with soft, crushing doubt. “C’mon.”

I square my shoulders. “I can.”

Van de Dumb Stupid Idiot Motherfucker snorts.

Faced with the option of ignoring him or killing him, I keep my attention on my brother. “He likes me. He does . I could get a saddle on him, I know I could.”

“He’d break your neck, kid.”

My hands ball into fists as I scowl at Van de Probably Got His Degree On Ebay. “Call me kid one more fucking time and I’ll break yours.”

Sliding between us, Jackson also shoots the trainer a glare. When he looks at me again, his expression is soft once more—pitying this time. “We’ll bring him back, okay? I promise.”

He should know that doesn’t mean anything to me. That I have a lifetime worth of broken promises, because he does too. I trust my brother, I do, but I don’t trust that .

Slowly, an idea forms in my head. A reckless, dumbass idea that might just prove that jackass right.

Even slower, I nod. I stare at the ground, knowing that if Jackson gets one good look at my face, he’ll know I’m up to something. Instead, I let him think I’m too pissed to be in his presence—which I am, but that’s not why I stomp into the barn. Not the main reason, at least.

As common sense takes its best stab at me, I hesitate in front of the wall of saddles.

A grand total of five seconds later, I’m grabbing the lightest one, and a rope bridle too, the softest, most worn-in one there is. The saddle blanket I’ve been using as a picnic blanket for the past fortnight, I toss over my shoulder before hauling the whole lot outside.

Jackson doesn't see me; he’s too busy arguing with Van de Fuckwit. Neither of them spot me slipping into the training paddock where Ruin roams, but they hear the thud of gear hitting the ground.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jackson hollers, but I can tell from his tone alone that he knows exactly what I’m about to do.

Even so, I call back, “Proving you just wasted your money on a hack.”

“ Hey ,” the hack in question shouts at the same time Jackson yells, “Don’t even think about it.”

Stooping to pick up the saddle blanket, I wave him off. “Stop yelling. Unless you actually want me to get trampled.”

“ Charlotte .”

Ignoring my brother, I take a couple of quick breaths before starting slowly towards Ruin.

He’s extra pissed today. I can see it in wild, shifty eyes. Briefly, I wonder what the hell I’m doing before I give myself a shake, both mentally and physically.

What was it that Simon said? Like calls to like? We’re cut from the same cloth, me and Ruin. He won’t hurt me. He’ll let me saddle him up. He’ll let me ride him.

He has to.

“Hi, pretty boy.” At the sound of my voice, sleek black ears prick forward. “How ya doing?”

A slow, equine blink tells me to fuck off.