Page 22 of Roped

Of course not; his hands are enough. The image of him almost choking Jensen to death in the parking lot last night is seared into my brain. It scared me, how easy it was for him to do that, wrap his hand around someone’s throat and almost cut off their air without breaking a sweat. But it also felt… right. Him taking vengeance on my behalf. I’m not one of those people who think cutting violence through violence isn’t the right way. I know violence is as necessary as surrender, and I don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t arrived when he did. But I’m not going there. I’m not thinking about how he saved me only to trap me himself. I’m also not going to analyze why he clenched his jaw just now. Or that it feels like he did it because he’s thinking about the same thing as me, that guy from the parking lot.

Instead, I glance down at his hands peeking out of his folded arms. I notice the absence of a wrap or a bandage and ask, “How’s your hand?”

He unclenches his stubbled jaw with difficulty and replies, “Finally stopped bleedin’.”

“That’s good I guess,” I say, swallowing. “I mean, I totally tried to maim you. Not that you didn’t deserve it, but still.” Then, for some reason I also add, “In fact, I think you should see a doctor…”

I wanted to say more but thankfully stopped myself because what the fuck am I doing? I don’t care if he sees a doctor or not, or that it bled a little too much, or at least more than I thought it should have. His stupid hand can fall off for all I care.

“Why,” he goes, “you rabid or somethin’?”

I gasp. “What?”

“Along with being a stubborn little filly that keeps wanderin’ off and is in desperate need of lassoin’.”

“You’re such a—”

“Told you to keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told, didn’t I?”

“I’m not your—”

“And yet, you’re here,” he keeps going. “Also, this is the second time, ain’t it?”

“Second time what?”

“That you’ve strutted into a place your ass don’t belong. Just like the bar last night. Tryna hunt somethin’ that’s way faster and more dangerous than you.”

My belly churns at his words. He’s right. This is the second time. That I’ve tried to get one up on him but instead got caught. I wonder, if I hadn’t baited him at the bar, would it have been so easy for him to take me? Actually, who am I kidding; of course it would’ve been easy for him. I mean, just look at him. He’s not only tall and broad and muscular, but he knows how to use those things to his advantage. How to not only use his strength to crush someone but also how to stay still and hidden until it’s time to strike.

“Well, you already got me, didn’t you?” I say, trying to keep my voice firm. “I’m already here. At Rawhide. What could be worse than that?”

At this, his eyes go on the move. He takes me in from the top of my head all the way to the bottom of my borrowed cowboy boots. I’m wearing a dress much like the one I had on before, in periwinkle blue. It’s very light and summery and flirty, exactly the kind of thing I like to wear, but in this moment, the dress makes me feel vulnerable. It makes me feel like the prey I am. And the way he’s looking at me doesn’t help. I have to squeeze my thighs to let his intense stare pass through me while also trying to contend with the fact that the fear he causes in me also makes my belly flutter. It’s the craziest thing.

When he’s done looking at me, he drawls, “Could tell you, but I’d rather you find out in your own time.”

My fear ratchets up. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“Supposed to make you smart.”

“What does—”

“So you’ll get the fuck out of here and go back to the party before anyone finds out you’re gone.”

Again, he’s right. If there’s an option where I get to come out of my latest blunder unscathed, I should take it. But I don’t move. Because as scary as he may be, I’m not going down without a fight. I may never have met a man like him before, a hunter to his core, but he’s also never met a prey like me, determined and brave. So I tamp down my fear and hop up on the dresser. Then, keeping my eyes locked with his, I say, “You know what, I think I’ll take my chances. I didn’t really get to do what I came here to do so”—I shrug and start swinging my legs—“I can’t really leave yet.”

He stays in his casual position, leaning against the pole, his hat still casting shadows on his face and his arms still folded across his chest. If my defiance has affected him in any way, I can’t tell. Not even when he asks, his voice low and rough, “Came here to do what?”

I keep swinging my legs. “To get to know you, of course.”

At this declaration as well, he keeps his gaze steady.

“It’s only fair, right?” I keep going. “You know everything about me. All my deep and dark secrets. You even know what kind of juice I like and what’s my favorite breakfast. Which is very impressive, by the way.” I’m not sure how I do it, but I keep my voice all breezy through this part. No stumbling over my words or even a stutter at the memory of how he not only cooked me my favorite breakfast along with stocking up on my favorite juice during a freaking kidnapping, but he also fed it to me with his own hands. Or rather his bloody hand. But moving on. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re kind of obsessed with me. I mean, you watched me for like six months. Six months, three weeks, four days, fourteen hours, and thirty-six minutes. That’s a very long time to watch someone. Even if for a job or whatever. But it also means I have a lot of catching up to do. So”—I fold my hands in my lap all primly—“what do you say? Are you ready to spill all your deep and dark secrets to me?”

He glances down at my folded hands and my swinging bare legs for a second before lifting his eyes. “It’s six months, three weeks, five days, one hour, and fourteen minutes. Give or take.”

“What?”

“Been a little over eleven hours since the last count.”