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CHAPTER TWENTY

FREYA

The next morning, I’m surprised to find I don’t regret being so honest with him. I’m shaken by everything, but when I get up and go to the bathroom, there’s peace in my chest.

That’s new for me.

I’m reaching for the faucet when I stop short, a little prickle going over my body. Turning slowly, my eyes fall on the chair in the corner. Sitting on it is a pale pink box with a black ribbon tied around it.

Right away, I know it’s for me. I pick it up and set it on the sink. My fingers untie the ribbon and set it aside. Butterflies erupt in my stomach. I slide open the lid, and my breath catches.

It’s a bra and panties set.

Blue silk, clearly expensive. My fingertips skim over the fabric, cool and soft. The edges have white lace, so fine, I have to lean in to inspect it. He spent money on this, a lot. No doubt, he wants to see me in it.

My mouth is dry as I turn on the shower. There’s a little bag of toiletries, rose scented, including some lotion and a razor, in the box. I lock the bathroom door and take a shower without worrying about running the hot water tank out. I just scrub and shave and wash my hair. When I get out, I’m so clean, I tingle as I work the tangles from my wet curls.

I’m not brave enough to go downstairs in these clothes, but I want to try them. So I do, pulling the silky underwear over my body. Turning in a slow circle to see how perfectly the bra and panties fit me. I’ve never looked so feminine, so soft, before. My face is practically glowing.

Up until this moment, I’ve never felt beautiful. I can be pretty, but I’m not the kind of woman who makes men stop and turn around.

I get it now. I see why Deacon stares at me.

I can’t stop staring either.

Pretty for the sake of being pretty has only existed in the context of natural things for me. Flowers, birds, sunsets. I’ve never thought about it for myself. It’s frivolous and exciting.

Hands unsteady, I take off the bra, and the panties and put them back in the box. I tie the bow shut and lay it on the chair. There’s no world where I’ll put that on in front of him without being prompted. I keep my head down as I put on my old bra and panties beneath the flannel shirt hanging behind the door and head downstairs.

The kitchen is empty. I slip inside and get a mug down. The coffee is dripping when I hear keys jiggle at the side door. I freeze, turning around just as a woman with cropped brown hair walks into the kitchen.

We both freeze. Her eyes widen as she sets her tote bag on the table.

“What—oh my,” she says.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, cheeks burning. “You must be Ginny.”

She covers her mouth with one hand for a second. When she takes it away, she’s smiling.

“I’m sorry, I just… Deacon doesn’t have…um—”

“Sleepovers?” I manage.

“Well,” she says, “yes.”

There’s no point in pretending I’m not with Deacon like that.

“I’m sorry, I’ll go back upstairs,” I say, reaching for my coffee .

“Oh, no, no,” she says, bustling into the kitchen. She steers me to the table, pulling out a chair and pushing me down. “You sit, dear. Let me make you something to eat.”

She’s over the moon, which is unexpected. She sets my coffee down and puts a swirl of creamer in it. The caramel scent is welcome on a morning like this, when I can see frost patterns on the window.

“I thought I noticed somebody who wasn’t Deacon was in my kitchen,” she says, still smiling like it’s Christmas morning.

“I’m sorry. I tried to leave everything spotless,” I say.

“Oh, you’re sweet. It was perfect,” she says. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m Ginny, my husband Andy is the manager out here on the ranch. I just do the cooking and make sure the house is clean.”

“I’m Freya,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled,” she says.

She actually is thrilled. I’m not sure why. I sip my coffee while she gets eggs going on the stove. In a few minutes, she’s sinking down beside me with two plates of breakfast.

“Now, you tell me about yourself,” she says, sitting back like I’m about to tell her something exciting.

“Um…I just moved to Montana in the winter,” I say.

“Where from?” She has a sip of coffee, watching me owlishly over the top.

“Eastern Kentucky,” I say.

“Oh, that’s where the accent is from,” she says. “I like it. It’s cute. Why’d you move here?”

“My stepfather bought some land,” I say. “He had a huge family farm and he sold it for a lot, so he just picked somewhere and went. At least, I think that’s why. He never gave me a good reason for it.”

“So how’d you meet Deacon?” she asks.

“We ran into each other during that big storm, and he gave me a ride,” I say.

She looks at me like something is dawning on her.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re the church girl.” She says it like it holds a lot of weight, and her expression backs that up .

“I don’t know,” I stutter. “I didn’t know he knew much about where I go to church. I mean, we talked about it a bit, but…not before we met.”

Ginny is looking at me like everything makes sense. I’m uncomfortable under her scrutiny, so I take a bite of toast. Butter and crisp bread melt on my tongue.

There’s a peacefulness in the morning here at Ryder Ranch, that I’m not used to. Mornings are usually my least favorite time. Everyone in my house is in a bad mood, most of them hungover. It’s a race to get food on the table before someone snaps at me.

But here, nobody raises their voice at me.

Nobody is angry at me for existing. In fact, Ginny is looking at me like I just made her whole week.

“So how long have you worked for Deacon?” I ask, eager to fill the silence.

“About fifteen years,” she says.

“And…you like it?”

“Oh, Deacon’s a sweetheart,” she says. “Andy and I will work here until we retire.”

My mind goes back to his face in the truck: jaw set, nose broken, bleeding hand on my thigh. I’m not sure I’d ever call Deacon Ryder a sweetheart, not after he beat Aiden bloody.

“You alright?” Ginny asks.

I rearrange my face and nod. “Sorry, it was an eventful night.”

Ginny’s brows go to her hairline. I blush, unable to help myself.

“It’s not that—”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

“No, no,” I stammer. “My stepfather, he got really angry and drunk, and Deacon came and got me. That’s why I’m here.”

Ginny’s face goes from flustered to concerned. Her brows knit, and she gives me a look that stares right into my soul.

“Do you need to stay up here with us, dear?” she asks.

“If Deacon wouldn’t have beat my family up in a bar, it wouldn’t have happened,” I say, unable to stifle the little bite in my voice .

That’s not really fair. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Ginny lets out a tired sigh. Her eyes drift to the window that, from her chair, looks out over the barn and yard.

“He does that sort of thing,” she says, shaking her head.

“Is he safe?” I blurt out.

She swings her head back around. “Safe?”

My throat is dry. I’m hoping I can trust her judgment, woman to woman.

“Is he safe, or does he get angry?” I whisper. “Like my stepfather does.”

Ginny’s face softens, her eyes getting a faraway look. She picks up my hand and squeezes it. My chest aches.

“He’s safe for you. Your stepfather, probably not,” she says.

My lips part. “I don’t want him getting involved with my family.”

She pats my hand and stands, taking away our empty plates. “I suggest your stepfather not use his fists on you, because I can’t vouch for what Deacon will do if he catches him doing that.”

“He doesn’t,” I say, shaking my head.

Ginny starts the coffeemaker on a second cup and goes into the back room, behind the kitchen for a minute. When she comes back out, she has a plastic grocery bag in her hand that she sets on the table.

“I keep a few changes of clothes up here at the house in case of spills,” she says. “I reckon you didn’t bring nothing but your nightgown on you last night.”

“I was in a hurry,” I say.

“Well, take that upstairs and see if anything fits,” she says.

Obediently, I carry the bag upstairs. There’s a pair of jeans that fit alright. The only sweater is a pretty Icelandic print, and it compliments my hair and eyes. I pull it on and tie my hair up before going back downstairs to the kitchen. When Ginny sees me, she cocks her head.

“Oh, you keep that sweater,” she says. “It’s pretty on you.”

“Oh, I can’t,” I protest.

“Not worth arguing with her. ”

I turn to find the kitchen door leading to the four season porch is open. Deacon stands on the stoop, screen door jammed open with his elbow. He’s in his work pants and boots, a charcoal gray Henley over his broad torso. It’s rolled up to his forearms, all his chaotic tattoos on display. He’s got a cigarette between his lips and a cup of coffee in his hand. There are two thick bandages over his knuckles.

We make eye contact. A tingle moves through the vicinity of my heart.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, taking the cigarette out.

He has an odd way of holding them, almost like a pen between his first finger and thumb.

“Hi,” I say, barely audible.

Deacon steps to the side, and my eyes fall on another man standing in the yard, smoking. There’s something familiar about him. He’s tall, lean, and broad in the shoulders. There’s an easy, open way about him. His eyes are bright gray-blue, his hair dusky brown. He’s got a handsome face, like a film star, just worn around the edges.

I think all these western men are a little rough at their edges.

The man takes his hat off. “Jensen Childress, miss,” he says.

“Freya,” I say, keeping back. “I know you, I think. You were standing outside the café when I found Deacon’s puppy.”

Deacon’s staring, like he’s afraid Jensen’s about to embarrass him. There’s a heavy bark, like a big dog, and the owner of that sound careens around the corner. It’s a big hound with drooping jowls and black dapples down its back. Distracted, I step onto the four season porch to get a better look. I love animals, and I can’t resist trying to pet any dog I can get my hands on.

“That’s Chicken,” Jensen says.

I swing my gaze around. “That’s his name?”

“It’s the only word he responds to, anyway,” says Jensen. “Ain't worth shit except for hunting raccoons and keeping the foxes off my property.”

Deacon’s eyes follow me as I circle him and Jensen, unable to resist the urge to pet Chicken. The hound smells like a barnyard, but he pushes his nose into my hand and nuzzles it. He’s got big brown eyes, droopy and sweet.

“Oh, he’s nice,” I say, scratching his ears. “I love hounds.”

Deacon clears his throat. I glance past him and see Ginny’s gone and the dishwasher is running. Jensen puts his hands on his hips.

“Let’s finish talking later, Ryder,” he says. “I got a job up at Sovereign Mountain, but I’ll be back around in a few days.”

Deacon jerks his head in a nod. Jensen starts around the house, heading for a big white truck parked by the barn. He whistles, opening the door. Chicken is sitting at my feet, staring into the middle distance, eyes unfocused.

“Chicken,” Jensen yells.

I nudge the hound, and he stares up at me. “You better go.”

Jensen slaps his thigh. “Jesus Christ, get in this truck.”

Chicken heaves himself up and takes his sweet time crossing the yard. He doesn’t get in the truck. Instead, he just stares up at Jensen until he snaps and lifts him into the passenger side. He’s grumbling under his breath as he gets inside and pulls the truck out, heading down the drive.

Then, it’s just Deacon and me, standing on the stoop with the chilly autumn air settled around us.

He flicks his cigarette in an empty pot. “You feeling alright, sweetheart?”

“About what?” I say, not backing down from his midnight stare.

“About me having to pick you up from your stepfather’s house so he didn’t fuck you up,” he says bluntly.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You okay to hang out here with Ginny today? I got slammed with shit around here, and Andy’s pissed because I’m not pulling my share,” he says.

I nod. After our discussions last night, it might do me some good to have some time to myself to digest.

He reaches up and taps my chin. “Good girl. I’ll see you tonight for dinner. ”

He’s so full of it, and I just eat it up when he says things like that. I watch him head to the barn and disappear inside. Ginny isn’t anywhere in sight when I go into the kitchen to make another coffee, but I find her on the back porch, shaking out a rug.

“Can I do something?” I ask.

She turns around. “Oh no, this is my job, and I get paid well for it.”

I fidget. I need something to do.

“Alright, you want to grab a broom and clean off the porches and walkways?” she says. “Then we can get to dusting. It’s cleaning day.”

That sounds perfect to me. She finishes shaking out all the rugs from the living room, and when she’s done, I start sweeping up. On the front porch, I can see Deacon on the hill behind the barn. He’s on Bones while Andy sits beside him on a gray horse. They’re doing something that involves a lot of gesticulating. Deacon gets down and slaps a fence post, and Andy gets down to slap it too. I think they’re doing repair work, because the post falls over.

A cold wind gusts in, smelling of winter and horses.

I could get used to Ryder Ranch.

It’s so quiet. It’s so safe, just like him.

We eat together in the kitchen. Deacon comes in a few minutes before Ginny gets ready to leave and goes upstairs to shower. I help her with the dishes, and then she leaves to have dinner with Andy. I go upstairs, but there’s nothing to change into but one of his flannels. The bathroom door is shut, the shower running.

I stand outside for a second.

His presence is strong. I inhale, catching the sharp scent of his soap.

Why do I feel like I’m at the entrance of a cave, looking into the dark, knowing there’s a big animal just out of sight?

A shiver runs down my spine.

Silently, I go downstairs and curl up on the rug before the fireplace in the living room. Stu whimpers, crawling from his bed, and I lift him out to play. He tugs at my sleeve and growls softly. I think he’s growing .

The house is quiet. Deacon moves about upstairs. He’s a big man, so he moves heavily, but not with anger. I wonder briefly if Bittern could have been like him.

A twinge of guilt moves through me.

I left him with Aiden and Ryland.

“You hungry, sweetheart?”

My eyes focus as I lift my head. Deacon’s at the bottom of the stairs, standing behind the couch. All the blood in my head rushes down and culminates between my thighs.

He looks so good, big body still dotted with water from his shower. I get up and scoop Stu back into his bed. Deacon watches me as I circle the couch and come up to him.

Boldly, I put my palm flat on his lower belly, on that delicious, tattooed V disappearing beneath his waistband. His body tenses. Beneath the fabric, he lengthens in response. Transfixed, I drag my palm down to cup him, warm and heavy.

Our eyes meet. The air snaps with tension.

“Can dinner wait?” I whisper.

He nods once. “Dinner can wait.”

The expression I saw in his eyes the other night flickers. It didn’t disappear. It laid in wait, like a beast in the shadows. Deep inside, I wanted it back.

His hand comes up and cradles my face. “You’re a desperate whore when you want it,” he says.

The bottom falls out of my stomach, and at the same time, my body is flooded with arousal so strong, I want to whimper.

“What…did you call me?” I whisper.

He digs his fingers into my hair. “Whore. My whore.”

Quick as a flash, I whirl and make for the stairs. One moment, I was peaceful by the fire. The next, my head is spinning, and shame washes over me in a wave at my body’s response to that word. Deacon’s footfalls follow me as I move down the hall and disappear into his room.

I don’t know what the plan is. Maybe lock myself in the bathroom until I can get my breath ?

He follows me, forehead creased, eyes unreadable.

“What’s that word to you?” His voice is hushed.

We’re on either side of the bed. For the first time, we’re at odds. I’m alone with him, and I can’t tell what he’s feeling. But instead of wanting to run, I want something else I don’t have a name for. It’s violent but hot and exciting.

It centers in the pit of my belly, right below where I feel him when I’m on top. He takes a step closer. I take a step back.

My heart thumps.

Is this part of a game?

If it is, the ache in me wants to play it. He cocks his head, studying me closely. I shift to the side, coming around the corner of the bed, pausing to study him.

“You like being my whore?” he asks quietly.

I wet my lips. “I don’t know,” I manage.

He takes a step closer. I snap, making a dash for the door. His arm comes out, and I slam into it, the wind knocking from my lungs. The ground falls away as he picks me up and I hit the bed on my stomach. There’s a sharp tearing sound. Cold air hits my skin as he strips me naked.

“Open your fucking legs,” he orders, “you pretty, filthy whore.”

Arousal is so much stronger than shame this time. I hesitate, trying to turn my head, but he grips my hair and holds it facing away. His zipper hisses. I hear the groan he always releases when he lets his cock out of his pants.

“Deacon,” I gasp.

He drags my head up, leaning over to look at my face. “You say red if you want it to stop. That’s your safeword for now. Understood?”

The same lust that flooded me before our first time is back. This is a game and, deep down, I want to play it. Maybe I don’t understand very much about it, but he’s giving me a safety lever I can pull if I want. That’s all the permission I need.

“Yes,” I gasp .

His mouth drops to my temple, hot, insistent. His hard cock drags over the backs of my thighs.

“What is it about being called a whore?” he murmurs. “You like it? Or hate it?”

“It’s what he calls me,” I whisper, face burning.

He tenses. “Who?”

“Aiden.”

The word gasps out. My lashes are wet, but I don’t want to stop this game. There’s a raw, hungry ache deeper than I’ve ever known in me, between my thighs and in my chest. For the first time in my life, I don’t want to hide for safety.

I want to be known. Deeply. I want him to know how that makes me feel.

There’s a short, heavy silence. He releases my hair and wraps his fingers around my throat, cradling it. I hear him spit, and his other hand rubs over my pussy. My clit throbs, desperate for a touch that only grazes it. Then, he pushes himself into me in one stroke, making stars burst behind my eyes.

“You going to be a good girl for me and take it like a whore?” he asks.

My body buzzes.

“Yes, sir,” I gasp.

He rumbles, I feel it against my back. He grips my right breast, circling it with his thumb. Then, he spanks it, a little slap that goes right down to my pussy.

“You call me daddy, sweetheart,” he says. “At least when I’ve got my cock this far up your cunt.”

Lust flashes, igniting a hot, insatiable itch in my pussy. He pulls out and thrusts hard, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure through my hips. God, that hits the perfect spot.

“Go on,” he says.

I can’t get that word past my teeth. It’s stuck, mired somewhere in my humiliation. I’ve never said that word in my life. The man who got my mother pregnant is a ghost, having left without so much as a name. The man who raised me is a villain, hellbent on punishing me because his ego is bruised.

I’ve never felt safe with a man before, never safe enough to call him anything but his name.

Until now.

But the part of me that should know how to speak that word is broken.

And in that brokenness, I hit a wall.

“I can’t,” I blurt out.

It’s too vulnerable.

“Yes, you can,” he says, voice firm.

There’s a note in it that tells me I can’t disobey. My head is completely empty—it can’t compete with what I’m feeling in my body. I don’t know what this is, but it lights me up. There’s no desire to run from the shame that word makes me feel. It’s just there, and that’s alright.

“Yes, daddy,” I whisper.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Now, I’m going to fuck you like the dirty whore you are, and you’re going to take it.”

He ruts his hips against my ass, hard. My fingers dig into the bed, knuckles white. He grips my shoulder and hip and starts fucking hard. The bedframe scrapes on the floor. The sound of our bodies meeting fills the room.

I clench my teeth, afraid if I don’t, I’ll bite my tongue.

He’s like a force of nature, pounding relentlessly through me. There’s nothing I can do but lay there, held up by his hands, and take it.

There’s no pain.

No anxiety.

No fear.

Just this endless pounding drum.

I have no desire to be anywhere but here. The stars hang in the sky, blurry in my vision, but I don’t long for them. The hole in my heart, the disjointed piece of me, is whole for tonight .

I’m jerked back to my physical body as he pulls out and flips me on my back, pushing me up on the pillows. My thighs flop open, my body exhausted. His hand grips the sheet by my head. He pushes his cock into me, and a groan reverberates in his throat.

I can only gaze up at him, because for the first time, I’ve found something brighter than the stars.

His life force is the strongest I’ve ever felt. Like a rushing river, a roaring fire, when he’s inside me, I feel it pour through my veins.

That’s what I felt the first time he fucked me. Not the beauty of the northern lights—him.

His face comes into focus, the tattoos running down to his chest. I reach up with a shaking hand and run my fingertips down his throat. Over his collarbones. To his pectorals. His thrusts slow, going from short and shallow to deep and long.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs.

We can both hear it between our bodies. I nod, still breathing hard.

“Call me that again,” I beg.

He leans in, mouth just brushing mine. “What? A whore?”

I nod. He kisses me, open mouth, giving me the familiar taste of him. When he pulls back, he nips my neck. My spine arches, letting him go even deeper.

“Tell me you’re my whore,” he orders.

“I’m your whore,” I gasp.

“What do you call me?”

That gives me pause. His hips are going so slow now, just a drawling thump, a second of reprieve, then another thump that makes my stomach swoop. I swallow. His dark eyes are glowing coals, a warning in them.

“I’m your whore, daddy,” I whisper.

“Say it out loud, or I’ll put you on your knees and fuck it out of you,” he says.

He ruts his hips, and there’s a hint of cruelty in them.

“I’m your whore, daddy,” I gasp out.

“Good fucking girl. ”

He pulls out and flips me on my stomach, lifting my lower body before entering me again. I gasp, rubbing my face into the bed. Pain explodes over my ass, and I hear the crack of his palm. Stars pop in my eyes. Then, I hear him spit, and it hits my lower back.

He grips my hair and starts fucking again. I’m spent, I have nothing left. He leveled on me, aimed, fired, and I’m flat on my back, completely done for tonight. At least, until I can get my head on straight in the morning.

I’m barely aware of when he comes, but I feel it hit my inner thigh.

And I’m faintly disappointed.