Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
She turns her gaze to the journal and hovers the pencil over the page. Then she writes one word.
Death.
That’s how I made her feel when I broke her heart. I knew it while it was happening, but to see the brutal truth written so clearly in five letters… It hurts on a whole new level.
I guess that’s the point.
Conor isn’t the only one grieving the crimes that were committed against her.
Straddling the thick fence rail, I lean back against the post and work my throat against a searing lump.
“Don’t stop singing,” she whispers.
I clear my voice and give her what she needs. As I sing, the pencil moves beneath the curtain of her hair.
The journal will serve as an outline later, when we step away and decompress. We’ll be able to evaluate her thoughts and talk through them. Right now, she just needs to let it out.
The song loops twice before she stops writing. “I’m finished. You can untie me now.”
I decide when she’s finished. That’s a concept she seems to have forgotten.
She needs to yield to me as much as I need to take care of her. Our natures thrive in the roles we established long ago—the leader and follower, the top and bottom, the alpha and omega.
We both crave that pecking order. We find harmony in it. If I have any hope of making us work in the long haul, I need to maintain our dynamic.
This is the other reason I strapped her to the saddle.
I slide off the fence, lowering on the side she faces. Behind her, the sun makes its decent toward the hillside, taking some of the heat with it.
After a quick check on the straps against her back, I stand before her, a couple of feet away.
“Obey me.” I tilt my head, studying her face. “And I’ll tell you what happened when I went to Chicago.”
“You went to Chicago?” She inhales sharply. “When?”
“The day after you rode away on your motorcycle.”
“Why did you…?” Her eyes flick nervously between mine. “Oh my God. You saw the bruises that day. You knew he…” Her mouth closes and opens. “What did you do?”
“The journal,” I say firmly, nodding at the book in her hand.
“Okay, I’ll write.” She wags the pencil. “Just tell me.”
“The day after I saw your bruises, I hopped on a plane, went directly to his apartment, and beat his face in.”
Her throat bobs. “He died three weeks later.”
“I didn’t kill him.” I toss off my hat and stab my fingers through my hair. “I wanted to, Conor. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to end his life for what he did to you. But he was your father. Your only living parent. I couldn’t do that to you.”
Her breathing falters, and her shoulders tighten. She glances down at the journal, blinks a few times, and jots down some words.
Good girl.
I pace along the fence as she writes. A few minutes later, her hollow voice stops me.
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes.” I go to her and bend my knees, putting us at eye level. “I told him I saw the abuse he inflicted. He didn’t deny it.”
“Was he drinking?”
“Yeah.” Fucking wasted. “I demanded answers about the threats on your life, but he refused to give me anything beyond what I already knew. He wanted you back in Chicago, away from the ranch. He was belligerent on that point.”
I inspected the apartment while I was there and found food, clothes, everything a girl her age needed to live comfortably. He provided for her well enough, but in his attempt to numb his pain, he didn’t give her the security and love she needed.
So I beat him into unconsciousness and left his bleeding, drunk ass on the floor.
She stares at the journal, the pencil pressed to the paper, unmoving. A bullet-point list of single words lines the page beneath her hand. Lonely, hurts, scared, hopeless, and so on.
Then there’s my name, in caps and underlined, with a slew of adjectives beneath it. Arrogant. Manipulative. Revengeful. Kinky… I like that last one.
But she didn’t write any specific memories about Chicago. She needs to address what happened with her dad.
I stroke the backs of my fingers along her delicate face. “Tell me what he did.”
“No. Please, Jake. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Write it down.”
She shakes her head briskly, adamantly, and directs her gaze to my phone on the fence. “Turn off that song.”
I’ll have to trigger her memories of the abuse. I expected that, but I want her in my arms when I do it.
“Hold onto the journal.” I move around her, releasing the straps on her back and hopping over the fence to untie her legs.
She slides off the saddle and turns in my arms.
My muscles tense, bracing. Then I direct her face to mine and exhale.