Page 92 of Roped

And second, because she thinks I’m beautiful. She looks at me like I hang the moon. Even after everything I’ve done, after everything I’ve told her, shown her, she still thinks I’m good. She still sees something in me, something I can’t see. Something that’s probably not really there but she believes it is. So how could I shatter her faith? How could I steal her away from the world and thrust her into darkness where I live? Where I belong. Where I have to wear a mask so I don’t scare people but still end up doing that anyway. Where they don’t look me in the eyes. Where my constant headaches won’t let me sleep; words bang around my skull because I still have trouble saying them if I’m not careful. Where the only way to get rid of my anger is to resort to violence. Where, if she lived with me, people would stare at her strangely too. They’d treat her differently. Her days would be filled with one battle after another, with the world, maybe with herself, too, when she realized I’m not the man she thought I was.

So no, I can’t keep her. I’m a monster, but I’m not that big of a monster that I’d rope the Princess in my barn and throw the key away. No matter how much I want to. I’ll send her back into the world, but only after I’ve made it safe for her. After I’ve gotten rid of the threat, every threat, against her.

We haven’t made much progress on that front, even though I gave Arsen and the others everything I had, everything I knew, every clue I could think of. Including pictures of the men at the warehouse so Arsen could look into that as well. According to him, those men were small-timers. They didn’t belong to a gang or an organization; there was nothing to suggest they were anything other than hired muscle. And whoever hired them covered their tracks pretty good.

Nothing from Brecken either. He says he’s still looking into things, having people investigated, enemies of the Turners, anyone who might want to bring them harm, just like Arsen. And while I understand these things take time, it’s something I don’t have. It’s something Lynnie might not have either. Whoever that man is, in his own words, he’s fucking impatient. And people with little patience tend to do reckless things. As risky as it was to call his bluff before, making him wait might be the biggest risk yet. So I need them to come through for me. I need to know who the fuck he is so I can destroy him, annihilate him for thinking he could steal my sister, for thinking he could hurt my Princess. And then, I will finally destroy Hank Turner. But not for killing my parents. I will destroy him and leave no body to bury for killing his daughter’s hopes and dreams at the age of ten.

But until that time, I’ll hold her tight in my arms and sleep beside her every chance I get. Because she isn’t the Turner Princess; she’s my Princess.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up before him.

This never happens. He’s a cowboy and a pretty good one at that. He always wakes up with the sun. Back at Rawhide, everyone talked about how he was never late for work or anything else. Mostly, it was Haven berating Axton for showing up late to breakfast even though he lived just down the hallway. Even Arsen could be late sometimes, but never Radisson. He was always on time, and I remember feeling something fluttery in my chest. Like it did something to me, him being so dependable and safe. Well, I can finally admit that it did.

Even here, at this ranch, when he’s not actively working, he still wakes up way before me, at dawn. He makes me breakfast and leaves it on the kitchen island for me to find later. By the time I’m done with my shower and food, the sun’s already risen and is firmly situated in the sky. And I always find him circling the corral on Tulip, waiting for me. I mean, he’s never said it, but I know he waits for me because when I meet him at the fence, he picks me up and sits me on his lap. And we take off for a ride.

All this to say, this moment is unprecedented. It’s way past dawn; I think it’s the time when I usually wake up because I see the sun streaming through the window, making thick puddles on the floor like the rain probably did last night, dust motes dancing in the beams. Which means this could be my chance. To watch and explore without his knowledge. He’s always the one who’s watching me, isn’t he? Now I’m going to watch him.

I start with his room first. Because I’ve been dying to check it out ever since I learned that this is where he disappears to at night, after our dinner together. That he also cooks—I only take care of lunch, which I more or less use dinner leftovers for because I’m a disaster in the kitchen—while I sit at the counter and watch him to do it with such an expertise that I can’t believe I waited three days to throw myself at him. His mom would be so proud of him, by the way; he’s an excellent cook.

Anyway, this barn is smaller than the one back at Rawhide. There’s only one level, for starters, and it doesn’t have his personal things that made the other barn his home. It does have some equipment, though, in one corner, along with bales of hay. A large dresser on the other side, a table and a chair with a lamp right next to the dresser, and this bed with wooden slats for the headboard in the middle of it all. I wonder, and not for the first time since we got here, whose ranch this is. How did he know to bring me here? It’s one of the many, many, many things I’ve wanted to ask him over the past three days. But of course, much like throwing myself at him, I refrained, wanting to keep my boundaries intact.

What an idiot.

I want to wake him up and ask him now. Ask him all the questions that I’ve been dying to ask, and now he’ll have to answer because he’s the one who said in this bed, there won’t be anything between us. No secrets, no past. But of course, I won’t. Not until I’ve taken full advantage of this situation. So I move my eyes up to the man himself. He’s sprawled on his back, his eyes closed, his impossibly long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His dark head’s resting on a fluffy, cloudlike pillow, and his plush mouth is slightly parted and relaxed as he sleeps.

Since I’ve only ever seen him in motion, working at the ranch, riding around, being bossy and commanding, sexy, I hadn’t realized how much tension he carries in his body, on his face even. I can see it now, though, because slumber has softened its edges. Made him younger. Taken away the crease between his thick brows, the lines around his beautiful mouth. Even his scar seems to be resting. As stunning as he is when he’s awake, he’s a different kind of devastating when he sleeps. And I love him relaxed as much as I love him awake and alert, threatening and watching.

Slowly, I pull myself away from him. Although it turns out to be a challenge because instead of being sprawled on the bed like him, I’m sprawled on his body. Instead of my head resting on the pillow, it’s resting on his hard, bronzed chest. I personally think I got the better deal between the two of us, because who needs a stupid pillow when I can just use his chest. Who needs a bed to sleep on when I can curl up on his large and broad body and be all comfy and cozy. But this has caused problems because we’re kind of stuck. Since we slept naked—yes, we’re both naked right now—and sweaty, our bodies are practically glued together. Not to mention, my thighs are tangled up with his in a seemingly complicated way. Somehow I manage to peel myself off him without waking him up, and I move down the bed. I kneel between his wide thighs before I take the cream sheet off his body completely, exposing him to my hungry, curious eyes.

The first thing I take in is the bullet wound on his shoulder. I guess he was right when he said it was superficial and I didn’t need to worry about it, even though his main motive was to keep himself hidden away from me. It’s only been a few days and it looks more or less healed. The skin is still pink and new, but it doesn’t look too bad. Then I go hunting for his stab wound and find it up by his ribs. This one’s slightly bigger than the one on his shoulder and, because it’s older, has totally healed, leaving behind puckered skin and not much else. And finally, I take in the other thing I wanted to last night but didn’t get a chance to: his dick.

As soon as I see it, I bite my lip and squeeze my thighs. No wonder there’s a throbbing in my pussy right now. No wonder it was so painful when he first got inside of me and I bled so much that he looked concerned. So much so that he bent down and cleaned me off with his mouth. And can we please talk about how he did that after he came inside of me? Meaning, in addition to my blood and my own juices, he must’ve tasted himself too. He must’ve tasted his own cum and why is that so fucking sexy to me? So fucking masculine. Like he isn’t afraid to taste himself on me. I don’t think any of the city boys he’s felled in my honor would ever do that. Also, it makes me jealous that I didn’t get to taste him myself.

Anyway, after that, he wouldn’t put it in, simply loved on me with his lips throughout the night, even though I asked him repeatedly to fuck me again. And now I can see why. It’s because his dick is huge. Huge. I have no other comparison for it, but I watch porn. I know what a big dick is and his is big and thick. Nestled in the thick patch of dark hair and resting on his thigh, I also think his dick is half hard, the purple head slightly swollen and that vein under its length almost standing in stark relief. My first thought is that his dick is beautiful, too, all dark and swollen at the top. My second thought is that I want to touch it. With my mouth. I decide that before this is over between us, I’m going to. It will be scary like our first time, but I’m going to learn; and unlike cooking, I’m going to excel at it.

After that, I take in his body as a whole. One arm is up and under the pillow and his other rests on his stomach. One of his legs is straight and the other is folded at the knee, and even in repose, every muscle in his magnificent body is sculpted in perfection. It’s forged under the sun, and in hard labor and fire.

The globes of his broad shoulders, the tendons of his thick neck; the arches of his wide chest, covered in a dusting of dark hair giving way to a thicker trail and those hard and deep ridges of his stomach. They didn’t come from a gym. Those muscles are built from hard work. From using his body from sunup to sundown to nourish the land. To protect it and keep it safe, let it flourish. Those legs of his, those thighs, belong to a man who spends his life up on a saddle. Not to mention the scars on the left side of his torso and thighs. They came from a son trying to save his parents; a brother trying to pull his sister out of a burning car. I don’t know how people can’t see it, how he can’t see it. He’s beautiful, both inside and out. Everything about him breaks my heart and gives it wings. Everything about him makes my soul sing. He’s my fate, and for the rest of my life, no matter where he goes or where I go, I’ll keep believing that.

Unable to stop myself, I lean over and do what I wanted to do last night. Kiss his scar. Place soft kisses on it, on those words that give him trouble. Those words that hurt him and make him angry. I also kiss my name. It’s surreal that he did that. That he tattooed my name on his skin, not once but so many times that it’ll take me some time to count. I know why he did it, though. It’s because like all these other words, I know my name hurts him too. I hurt him, being obsessed with me hurts him. It’s torture and agony, wanting me. It’s torture and agony for me, too, wanting him back. It all hurts and it all feels good and I never ever want it to stop.

I’ve been so engrossed in loving him that I totally missed the fact that his body isn’t relaxed anymore. His abs are flexing with every kiss I give him, and his thighs are taut now. Oh, and the other part of his body is totally awake too. But before I can check it out again, he threads his fingers through my hair before fisting them and pulling my head back. My eyes clash with his green ones. They’re half sleepy but half alert, meaning he’s been awake for at least a few minutes.

Before I can say anything, he rumbles, “You still sore?”

And my heart blooms while my cheeks blush because I know what he’s asking in his sleep-roughened voice. “No.”

He doesn’t relax, though; if anything a light frown emerges between his brows. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Took you hard last night.”

My blush intensifies. “Not that hard.”

“Hard enough to make you bleed.”