Page 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

FREYA

It takes me a few minutes to get my head on straight after he’s gone. Still burning up, I make some tea and climb up the stairs. In the hall, I peer out the window and see him taking Bones out, breaking into a trot as he heads toward the employee housing.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings, but I’m happy to be here right now.

The house is peacefully silent as I start sorting through the things he bought for me. Journals, pens, bolts of the prettiest fabric I’ve ever seen, yarn, watercolors. I take it out and marvel silently over it.

Aiden hated that I liked my books, my insects. He taunted me for it every chance he got, and Ryland took his lead.

It was only sweet Bittern who understood. He sat on the porch steps after he got back from the mines and let me read to him. He liked the pictures in the fairy books. He’d watch as I colored them with a paint set he bought me from the dollar shop. He said it helped his head stay quiet.

My eyes are wet.

Poor Bittern. It’s only now I’m older that I realize Bittern needs help, and not just for his lungs. He spent nine days in the dark, deep in the rock, and it broke him .

I don’t know what Deacon plans to do to Aiden, but he can’t hurt Bittern or it’ll break my heart. He said he’d save him. I’ll hold him to that.

A little yapping outside breaks me from my reverie a few hours later. I’ve been up here for hours, and it’s well past noon. My knees ache as I get up and cross the room to look out the window.

My breath catches. There’s snow falling from the gray sky, spiraling over the mountains, catching on the frozen ground.

It’s beautiful.

Deacon appears in the yard. Stu hangs from the breast pocket of his coat, yapping his head off. He uses the side of his boot to clear the thin layer of snow and sets Stu down to do his business.

Warmth glows beneath my breastbone. I love how much Deacon cares for his animals. His horses are beautifully kept, even the ones he doesn’t sell. I see the way they lift their heads when he walks by, hoping for his attention.

He’s so good at taking care of things. I think he’ll be good at caring for me if I can be brave enough to let him.

I go downstairs, and he comes in, briefly because he says he has a lot of work before nightfall. We eat sandwiches in the kitchen. He has a coffee and kisses my mouth before leaving Stu and me in the living room. We’re both tired, so I curl up with a blanket over me, Stu in my arms, and let myself drift off.

I’ve never taken a nap during the day before. It’s luxurious.

I dream of home, but not the same way I used to. This time, I’m staring up at the mountains, and they keep getting smaller and smaller until the smoky tops disappear into the horizon.

I cry, but I don’t try to go back.

Warmth trickles down my back. I flutter my eyes open and roll my head to look around. He must have carried me upstairs. It’s dark outside, the fireplace flickering. Deacon sits on his side of the bed, his rough palm running up and down my spine. A tingle of something I didn’t expect—arousal, maybe—follows his touch.

“It’s five,” Deacon says. “Are you hungry? ”

I sit up, realizing I’m still in my clothes. “A little, not a lot. Are you?”

He shrugs. “I could eat.”

The way he says it sends a curl of heat down between my thighs.

“I set out your night clothes,” he says. “You get undressed and come downstairs before we have dinner.”

He bends, his lips brush my forehead. My body prickles from my head to my feet, and my nipples go tight under my bra. He gets up, and I listen as his boots go down the hall to the lower floor.

Curious, I rise and turn on the light. On the chair is a deep blue slip with a matching silk dressing gown. I lift it, my brows rising. He must have a stash of clothing he bought for me that I haven’t seen yet. The idea is a little thrilling.

I put it on, leaving the belt undone. I want him to see the rise of my cleavage. The way it makes his eyes wander feels so good, so powerful. Then, I leave the bedroom and go downstairs to find him making dinner. There’s only one place setting. I’m not sure what he wants or where I should sit, so I loiter by the door with my hands tucked behind my back.

He glances up and does that double take I’m starting to love. “Goddamn, girl. You look good,” he says.

I smile without thinking about it.

His eyes linger on me. “You want coffee?”

I shake my head. He sets a plate on the table loaded with meat, potatoes, bread, and gravy. He’s not a bad cook, but his food is different than what I’m used to—it’s hearty, made for winters like this. He sinks down and spreads his knees, leaning back.

I look at him, unsure what’s happening. He pats his leg once.

“Come here and sit,” he says.

Momentarily, I think about refusing. Then, I remember our talk. This might be an odd arrangement, one I don’t fully understand, but my word is my bond, and he’s never asked me to do anything I haven’t liked yet.

And I like the pleasure he gives me. After a lifetime of being ignored, it feels good to be desired .

I sit on his knee, and his firm arm wraps around my waist. My eyes follow his hands as he breaks the bread into smaller pieces and soaks them in gravy.

“Open,” he says.

I do as he says, and he puts the food into my mouth. It’s good, strong and thick. My brain buzzes, watching him lick the fingers that just touched my tongue. He eats some, then he feeds me some. It feels like some kind of ancient ritual. Like when he’s done, we’ll be bound forever.

The thought is a little frightening.

I look around while we eat, noticing there’s only water and coffee on the table. That’s different than what I’m used to. Aiden, Ryland, and Bittern drink in the morning, noon, and night. Occasionally, if his day at the factory was rough, Aiden would do a line off the kitchen counter. I’d clean up after him, always worried he’d somehow get in trouble, even though it was just me who saw it.

My childhood was littered with casual pain and the casual vices that patched it up.

I don’t want that anymore.

I glance at him sideways. He’s using the last bit of bread to mop up the scraps of gravy. The plate is empty, and I’m satisfied. He wipes his hands and shifts me to face him.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

He reaches up and tucks a curl behind my ear. “You can just ask. No need to clear it with me first, sweetheart.”

My cheeks go warm. “I see you drink and smoke, but not all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Like, you just have one here and there. You can go all day without anything. Do you not get addicted?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never been addicted. I smoke in the summer, not much in the winter. I like whiskey, but not enough to try to get drunk off it. I’m too big for it to have much effect on me anyway.”

I consider this, unsure if I believe it. All I’ve known is men with problems on problems, men who were kicked down by life too many times to keep from turning somewhere for comfort. I can’t say I blame them. The only thing that kept me from drinking to handle it was the thought it could make me like Aiden.

“So you just cope with life?” I ask.

He considers it. “I think sex is my outlet.”

My stomach sinks, and it takes me a second to identify why.

“Can I ask—”

“Just ask, sweetheart,” he says, dark eyes soft.

“Okay,” I say, taking a breath. “How long had it been since you had sex when we slept together for the first time?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking hard again. “I saw you in the winter. I’d gotten laid a few months prior, so it’s been almost a year from now.”

Warmth settles in my lower belly. “You didn’t sleep with anyone after you saw me in the winter?”

He shakes his head. “Why do that when I wanted you?”

He’s very focused. I wonder if that’s how he was able to keep this ranch running so well. It’s beautifully kept, everything deliberate. From the things I heard while working at the café, he’s known for having the best barrel racers in Montana. That takes dedication.

I drag my attention back. He’s watching me, head tilted.

“The man you lost your virginity to,” he says. “Tell me about him.”

The warmth in my stomach disappears. “Do you really want to hear about it?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because it meant something to you,” he says.

Truthfully, now that I’ve slept with Deacon, the memory of what Braxton did is faded, like a copy of a copy.

“I want you to tell me,” he says, sitting up. “Run upstairs and sit in the chair by the fireplace.”

I hesitate. He gives me a look that lets me know he’s not fucking around. Ever since I agreed to be submissive to him, he’s different. His energy is darker, more dominating. It’s…secure.

I can turn my brain off .

Upstairs, I wait for him, pacing the room. I catch my own reflection in the mirrors by the fireplace. My feet go still; I look different.

All my life, I’ve had hungry eyes. Lean, like an animal.

But tonight, I’m soft.

The door opens, I turn. He comes in and locks the door. The click triggers an involuntary rush of arousal—my body knows his hands will be on it soon. He crosses the room, not looking at me, and drops the cushion on the ground before sinking into the chair on the hearth.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to the pillow.

Cowed, I obey. He spreads his knees so I can fit between them. Then, he shifts my body so my feet are tucked beside me and my body is laid against his leg. Gently, palm on my chin, he rests my cheek against his thigh.

“Tell me,” he says.

“He was one of Ryland’s friends from Pike County on the border,” I whisper. “I had just turned eighteen. I’d heard a lot of things from listening to my stepbrothers talk. I had it in my head that sex was this…amazing thing. All they did in their spare time was try to get laid, so of course I thought that.”

He starts stroking my hair, up over my temple, behind my ear.

“Go on,” he says.

“He came to get something while they were all at work. I was na?ve. I thought I was so grown up. I was doing laundry in the tobacco barn out back. He came in… We had sex.”

“That was it?”

I nod. His brows crease.

“That’s not it. Tell me the truth.”

I frown, staring into the fireplace. “He told me he wanted it. I asked him if it would feel good and he said yes. The ground was dirt. I remember I wore a pair of jeans that were so tight, he had trouble getting them off. But they looked good on me.”

I falter, remembering that pair of jeans and how I never wore them again .

I sniff. “It hurt. A lot. Not the good kind. It was like sandpaper. I think I was too nervous to get wet. I remember telling him it hurt. He said it was supposed to because I’d never done it before. I figured I could just stick it out until he was done, but it took him forever. I didn’t tell him to stop… I felt this pressure to let him finish.”

I drag my eyes up to his, but they’re unreadable.

“I don’t feel that with you,” I whisper.

He touches my cheek. “You can always tell me to stop.”

I nod. “I could have told him to stop too, but I was just lost in the…disappointment. It was like I wasn’t there. I think that’s why I hate this memory so much. He just did what he wanted and left me there.”

Something shifts in him.

“There? On the ground?”

I nod, rough fabric of his pants rubbing my cheek. “I bled, so I had to clean up with a rag. There was this pit in my stomach, like my whole chest was hollow. It made me feel so…used.”

He’s quiet—too quiet.

“It just made me feel bad,” I say. “And I never had sex again, not until you. But you don’t make me feel the way he did.”

His palm runs up my spine. I can practically hear the gears in his head turning.

“I didn’t know anything. No one taught me. I got lucky enough I didn’t get pregnant. I didn’t know to take a morning-after pill or even ask him to wear a condom,” I whisper, embarrassed. “I wouldn’t have had the money for either.”

My mind goes to Aiden’s first wife, Bittern’s mother. I wonder if she was the same. Maybe nobody bothered to talk to her about preventing pregnancy. Maybe she didn’t have a mother or a sister, just Aiden.

My heart aches—not just for myself, but for all the women who came before me.

The only difference between me and them is luck. I slept with a man not understanding the consequences. I could have gotten pregnant by one of Ryland’s rough, older friends .

By some chance, I got out.

“What was his name?” he asks.

“Braxton Whitaker,” I whisper.

His middle finger traces my jawline. It circles behind my ear and up through my hair. He strokes my hairline. The fireplace glimmers through my lashes.

Neither of us speaks. Something hangs in the air, a palpable feeling. The longer he strokes my hair and neck, the more it fades.

My lids are so heavy, and the fire is so warm.

I sink into him, draped in his lap. Dimly, I’m aware of him shifting, and I’m in his arms. He lays me down, and my eyes flutter open long enough to connect with his. Then, he’s going down, and my spine is arching as his tongue drags over my pussy.

Four orgasms later, he’s got me out like a light.