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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

FREYA

I’m shattered, but it puts a few pieces of my heart back together when he holds me and lets me cry into his chest. Nobody but Deacon has ever held me while I cried.

Outside, I hear the wind pick up. The weather is about to change. It flips the leaves the way it does back home, showing their pale undersides in a ripple. His heart beats faster than normal, beneath my ear. I count it, taking a breath every three beats until the tears slow.

He doesn’t tell me it’s silly to grieve for my collection.

I think I misjudged him. He’s not like Aiden at all. Yes, he’s big and strong and rough, but in Deacon’s case, that’s not a bad thing. He seems to have the darker side of himself under control.

I think that’s alright. I think there are different kinds of men like him, and they’re not all bad like Aiden.

Sticky from tears, I peel my face off his shirt. He clears his throat and turns me in his lap, shifting my legs apart to wrap around his waist. His hand comes up, and I don’t flinch.

He wipes my face with the side of his tattooed finger. How many times has Aiden flicked me in that same spot? I don’t know, but I do know now that Deacon would never ever use his hands to hurt me .

He lifts me to my feet. “Let’s go,” he says.

I nod, and he weaves his fingers through mine. We go into the hall, but instead of turning at the staircase, he opens the door to reveal a set of dark wooden steps leading up into an airy room. It’s not like any attics I’ve been in before. The air smells faintly of fresh paint, and there’s no mustiness.

My breath catches as we ascend into the attic. It’s huge, with a tall, peaked ceiling with a heavy central beam. There are four panels of skylight on either side, letting in the gray sky overhead.

It’s what’s inside that drags me back down to Earth. At the far side of the room is a vast, plush couch, and behind it runs a wall of empty bookshelves. There’s a desk to the right, huge and stacked with empty collection cases. Above it are rows of felt-bound journals.

I step into the center of the room, speechless. I’m dimly aware of the soft rug under my bare feet as I turn in circles.

Finally, I stop. There’s a lump in my throat when I meet his eyes.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

My face crumples, and I nod, tears slipping out. He’s beside me in a second. His arms go around me, pulling me into the safety of his broad chest.

His hand strokes down my hair. “This is your space,” he says. “Just for you, sweetheart.”

I can’t conceptualize that kind of autonomy. I close my eyes and let him stroke my hair. We have such a long way to go, but I’m starting to think there’s more to him than I thought.

Nobody but Deacon has ever given me anything, not unless I count the bugs Bittern brought me. Those were sweet, and they meant a lot, but it’s not the same thing as Deacon learning what I enjoy and bringing it to life.

“I can’t get back your collection,” he says, tucking my hair behind my ear. “But when it’s summer again, you can start a new one.”

“Thank you.” The word slips out, fragile.

He looks at me for a long time. Then, he taps my chin with the side of his finger. “I’ve got chores,” he says. “I’ll let you get to poking around. ”

He’s gone, boots ringing down the stairs and hall. I cross the room and lean over the couch to look out the window. He walks down the driveway, his coat and hat on. I know it’s cold, although it never seems to bother him.

While I long for the mild winters of the south, I think he likes the sharp cold of the winter out west.

He disappears into the barn. A moment later, he appears on Bones. They linger in the yard for a second as Andy appears. They both talk for a few moments, then Bones circles, and they head off to the western pasture.

Awed, I traipse around the room, inspecting everything—sanded and glossed framing, painted walls, dark wood flooring. A rug the same deep blue as the ones downstairs. A black stone mantel. The enormous oak wood desk that surely wasn’t purchased in the last few days, stacked with empty collection cases. The right kind, to keep the moisture out and the specimens protected.

I turn. In the far corner sits a chest that comes to mid-thigh. Curious, I cross the room and unlatch it, dragging the heavy lid open.

My stomach swoops.

It’s full to the brim. There are books, still tied up in gift wrapping. I pick one up and undo the ribbon, turning over a collection of fairy tales. Underneath it is a bolt of pink dotted fabric, the receipt still pinned to it. I set the book aside and pick it up, leaning in to look at the purchase date.

Months ago.

My stomach is tight, my heart fluttering. I set the pink dotted fabric down and tuck the receipt away, as if that will hide the realization I’m having.

He’s been buying things for me since before we officially met. For weeks—months. When I piece that together with the knowledge that he lied the day we met and said the highway was closed…well, I can only draw one conclusion from that.

Deacon Ryder will do what it takes to get what he wants.

My eyes come back into focus, fixing on the opposite wall. My stomach turns over. I get up and walk across, laying my fingertips on the paint. It’s the same exact shade as the fern-green I always wear. It’s my favorite color, the same rich shade of the pines in the deepest parts of the Appalachian Mountains.

He has such an attention to detail. It’s gentle, like his touch.

My hands are unsteady as I close the lid, not interested in going through the rest of the contents. I know two things for certain now.

One—Deacon Ryder is a damn psycho.

Two—I’m glad he’s on my side.

I go downstairs. He’s still outside, the yard empty. I check the clock—it’s almost nine. I’m listless, shaken up by the attic room and unsure why I feel like I’m being pulled toward him like a magnet. I should run, but I can’t.

Not after seeing that room.

So, I open the fridge and start taking stock of what I can make for dinner. It’s absurd. He kidnapped me, and now he made it clear I can’t leave. And here I am, cutting chicken into strips and heating oil on the stove, cooking for him like he’s my man.

My brows crease in a frown. The golden oil starts to bubble on the bottom.

It’s bothering me that I don’t mind.

Maybe Deacon Ryder is my man, whether I like it or not.

Wrathfully, I batter the chicken and drop it into the oil. While it cooks, I dig under the cabinets until I find a waffle maker. My stomach craves comfort, so I make crispy waffles, fried chicken, and drag a jug of maple syrup up from the pantry.

He comes in as everything finishes cooking. It’s almost twelve, later than usual, because it took me a while to locate the things I needed. The food is piled on a platter on the table and plates are set out.

Quickly so he doesn’t notice, I give him a once-over. Right away, I have butterflies again. God, he looks good, all tall and sexy and dirty from being outside, sleeves pushed up, ink out, broad arms crossed over his chest.

He leans in the doorway. “You don’t have to cook for me. ”

Wordlessly, I pull out his chair. His forehead creases, but he washes his hands and sits. I sink beside him, filling our plates before he can speak. When I look up, he’s leaning back in his chair, eyes on me, like he’ll wait all night for me to be ready to speak.

I fold my hands in my lap.

“How long have you been buying me things?” I ask.

My voice is fragile.

“Since I saw you,” he says. “Outside the café, in the alley.”

“When was that?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Late winter.”

“Why?”

A gust of wind whistles against the house. It rattles the bolted shutters. I don’t need to look outside at the underbelly of the leaves to know there’s a storm coming.

“You were always meant for me, no question,” he says, voice a low rumble. He has a way of looking at me, head tilted down but eyes lifted. It helps me to not feel like I’m in his spotlight.

“You know my options are…limited,” I manage.

He nods.

“And you took advantage of that.” My tone isn’t accusatory. I keep it plain, laying it all out.

“I know,” he says.

“Is this what you do?” I burst out. “Just see women you like and stalk them until they have no other options?”

“Just you.” His voice is firm. “Only you make me act this way, sweetheart.”

My cheeks are hot. I stare down at the table.

“Hey, look at me for a minute,” he says, voice dropping.

Slowly, I drag my eyes up. He’s still looking at me with that patient expression.

“I won’t lie and say I haven’t been around,” he says. “But I want you, bottom line. I have for months, and I’m tired of sitting on my ass about it. You’re it for me, sweetheart.”

He says it with total conviction. A chill moves down my spine and the shutters rattle outside. Inside, it’s warm and I’m not afraid for the first time in my life. I don’t know why. Annoyed, maybe, but not scared.

I should run from him again, but I won’t, and the reason became clear to me today.

The attic.

Nobody has ever read me so well that they could put together a room of everything I love. Nobody else understands my need to have a space that’s mine, where I don’t have to listen for footsteps or angry voices.

My hands twist in my lap, knuckles white.

I’m safe now, but I need to know how much safety costs. That’s the part we only just brushed on when we talked about contracts and kink and ownership before I ran. In part, I ran because of Bittern, but deep down, I know I also ran from him.

“Let’s eat,” he says.

Obediently, I cut my fried chicken, dip it in gravy, and take a bite. He gets to eating like he’s not bothered by anything. The wind whistles, shrieking.

“Will it storm today?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not until tomorrow morning.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“I checked the weather.”

For some reason, I thought he was going to say he’d lived in Montana all his life and knew it like the back of his hand. I’ve been so cut off with nothing but my flip phone and no access to a computer, I forgot the internet exists.

“Oh, that makes sense,” I say.

His plate is clean before I’m five bites in. He sits back, wiping his hands on his napkin. “I’ve never had food as good as what you cook, sweetheart. Worth kidnapping you for.”

I gasp. He gives me that lopsided smile as he gets up.

“I’m gonna work you over and work you out tonight,” he says. “So you rest up today while I batten down the hatches for the storm tomorrow. ”

He doesn’t give me time to reply. He just kisses the top of my head. His touch burns for a half second. A hand on my shoulder, his mouth on my hair. Then, he’s gone, striding down the hall is his big, steel-toe boots that don’t scare me anymore.

I stare at the wall for a long time. I’m not shaken up by what he’s promised to do to me tonight. No, I’m shaken up because nobody has ever kissed me like that.

A brush of his lips as he passes by.

Casual…like maybe he loves me.