2. Draven
Draven
H e’s lying down with half of his face in the grey-brown dust.
Next to his cheek, there’s a footprint-shaped shadow in the earth that my own boot made a few moments ago.
I take off my cowboy hat and gaze down at it, holding my own dark halo in my hands. There’s only a little bit of blood on the brim. Barely visible on the black felt.
When I crouch down beside his unconscious figure, I reach out and put my fingers to his nostrils. Check if he’s breathing.
Knocked out cold like this, he looks frail and fallible. The sweeping mountains behind my estate are bathed in grey, the fog rolling in along the basin and promising to stay through the night.
It could almost look like the backdrop of a play:
The Montana mountain range.
My endless ranch land under the darkening light at dusk.
The body.
The weapon: just fists and the fat trunk of a nearby tree.
And me. The villain.
But this is cold and bloody and the definition of a mess. A little bit too real to be theater. The truth is that I hadn’t even been trying to hurt him. Retaliation doesn’t always work that way, and all I’d wanted was to make things right.
I feel his pulse at his wrist as his heartbeat limps along, still going, and I know I might be making the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.
My land.
My problem.
My fault.
One more bad thing to follow me into my dreams. One more wrong choice etched onto my soul forever.
But the one thing I don’t feel, even a little?
Regret.
That’s how I know I’m a monster. And I don’t mind that, either.
I drop his arm back onto the ground. Stand tall. Put my black hat back where it belongs. Not like a halo, but like an ink-black crown.
This mistake won’t stop me from protecting what’s important. Nothing will.
The worst thing about Tennessee, so far, was the lack of violence.
I’m not a total psychopath. It’s not as if I need to see bones break every night, watch somebody get punched so hard their whole face becomes a bruise, or have someone beg me to sink my cock deep into their throat solely because they’d rather please me than breathe.
Mmm. Maybe that’s more of a craving than a need.
I just wanted to feel something.
Sometimes, the road to feeling something takes… a lot. A lot of desire, a lot of pain. Both. Always both.
The second worst thing about Tennessee, though?
I was about to become a homeowner here.
I was standing in front of a small house, afternoon light glinting off a broken windowpane on the front.
The advertisement for the place described it as an “ adorable fixer-upper that just needs a fresh coat of paint!”
I surveyed the property now from under the brim of my hat.
The house was single-level, with weathered red siding on the exterior that needed a lot more than just a fresh coat of paint.
There were a few acres of unkempt land around it that smelled like dry grass and dust. The sun came in at an angle, forming long shadows in the swaying green grass surrounding the home.
I crossed my arms in front of me, nodding over at Mr. Marsden, the elderly owner who’d just given me a tour of the place. He stood under a mature maple tree with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, peering at me hesitantly as if he was waiting for me to back out of the sale.
A lot of people had passed on the house before, apparently. He’d told me three times that it was a “hard sell.”
“It’s what I need,” I told him now.
Because it was a house.
With land.
That wasn’t in Montana.
Technically I wasn’t running from the law, because there were no warrants out for my arrest yet.
I was escaping. From the potential of jail time, yes. Also from worse things.
“Definitely is a fixer-upper,” Mr. Marsden said.
“I can see that.”
I pushed my hat back from my brow, wiping away sweat. I’d only been in Tennessee for a day but as far as I could tell, the air was always humid and way too fucking warm here.
Mr. Marsden dropped the cigarette and put it out on the dirt. He started his slow walk over toward the far corner, waving for me to follow him.
My boots crunched on gravel.
I’d found the for-sale listing for this place online a few days ago, before Lily and I had arrived in town.
“Yep. She needs a little TLC,” Mr. Marsden said now, slapping one of the rust-red wood panels on the corner. Dust motes flew off into the sunlight, and I squinted down, noticing another half-dozen broken off pieces of siding.
The place could have been halfway burnt to the ground and I wouldn’t have cared, though.
It wasn’t even just about the house.
It was about the land.
One thing was true of me and true of my entire family, too: I needed land .
Back in Montana, that was the Lyons family’s biggest jewel of wealth. Land that stretched on for miles. Acres and acres, in Big Sky and all other parts north of it in Gallatin County, and a portfolio of smaller ranches around Rollins, too.
The air was so clear up there.
Bracingly cool. Cold, even, compared to the warmth here.
I craved the chill in that air fucking badly , right now.
On the back of Veil’s saddle, riding at dusk on my property up north, there was nothing closer to feeling like a king.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, my chest tightening at the thought of my favorite Friesian mare.
I’d rescued her three years back from a failed breeding operation out East. Right now, it was late afternoon, so Veil would be in her stall, probably listening for wild turkey as they crossed the ridge outside the stables.
I clenched my jaw. Veil was safe and well cared for back in Montana. But I couldn’t fucking stand being away from my animals and my land.
And I will destroy every person who’s come between me and that land.
Every lost ride with Veil.
Every day spent down here in the heat, forced to flee my own world?
I’ll ruin their lives because of it.
No matter what bloodline they’re from.
Mr. Marsden coughed as another dust plume floated off from the exterior of the house.
He could have been anywhere between 80 and 200 years old, as far as I could tell, but he tried to move around like he was still 18.
His denim was covered in dust now after the tour, where he’d been sure to kneel down and show me the exact places in the kitchen that needed the most repairs, and he’d even shimmied up into the attic for a minute to warn me about insulation.
“Your son was going to fix this place up?” I asked him.
He gave me a wry smile, his wrinkles rearranging in the afternoon sun. “Was going to. Until he ended up U-hauling down to Texas to marry his third wife.”
I hummed. “And now all of this could be mine.”
“Said you’re from Montana?” Mr. Marsden asked as he leaned over to pluck a few weeds by the foundation of the house.
“Born and raised,” I told him.
“What’s bringing you out to Bestens?”
I glanced at the gravel path that led to the dirt driveway. “Also for a girl.”
“Ahh, movin’ in together?”
Not exactly.
“This house will be just for me,” I said.
I set my jaw. I wasn’t going to explain that Lily and I weren’t together. Not in that way.
The more complicated answer was that Lily deserved some peace and quiet, and time away from me. I didn’t know if she’d ever truly loved me, but after she finally ended things with me right when we got to town, there were many reasons I knew she certainly didn’t love me now.
“If you want it,” he said, giving me a wide shrug. “In about a month it should be ready. Got to let the wife come by and take what she wants off the walls, do a walkthrough or two. But it’s about ready.”
I frowned at him from under the brim of my hat. “I’m going to need it much sooner than that.”
Mr. Marsden waved off a fly. “Like I said. The Missus?—”
“I’ll be paying cash. We can close on a deal tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Sir?—”
“I’ll hire a moving company to take out anything your wife might want.”
He squinted over at me like he was trying to calculate something behind his eyes. A breeze blew past, shaking the leaves in the tall oaks. The scent of far-off honeysuckle came through the air, the same type I’d smelled last night outside Max’s little barn.
I liked that honeysuckle smell.
I fucking liked everything about last night.
Taking down Lily’s brother outside was almost… comfortable. Too comfortable .
It was the only slice of something like violence I’d gotten so far here, and the craving was almost too enormous to handle.
Max had seemed scared, but when we were on the ground, I could see the same streak of craving in him that I saw in myself.
He enjoyed it. Some part of it. Even if he’d turn blue in the face denying it.
He liked getting physical.
I’d wanted more.
I’d wanted to pin him down again.
Coax more precum from that thick, desperate cock I’d gotten a glimpse of through his pants.
Watch him try and fail to break free.
Find out what else got his blood pumping.
I stopped that line of thinking.
No need to make that type of mistake yet.
“Cash, huh?” Mr. Marsden said, peering at me.
“Cash.”
He looked down at the weeds on the lawn. “Well, maybe that could speed up the process.”
“Mr. Marsden, I’m ready to give you double the asking price in cash to get this place as soon as possible.”
“ Hah ,” he said, then realized I wasn’t joking. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lyons. But may I ask why you want this old junk heap of a place badly enough to pay double and need it that fast?”
I clicked my tongue. “Not much of a salesman, are you?”
He shrugged. “Well, no, I’m not, if you want the truth. I’m honest.”
“I think people down here are a little too honest.”
He nodded, reaching in his pocket and pulling out another cigarette. “Maybe true,” he said, leaning over and lighting it, the flame flickering in the breeze.“Maybe true.”
I gazed out over the plot of land. Right now the grass was seriously overgrown and dotted with dandelions all over, and the stall barn that apparently used to hold two horses was long since abandoned, the wood fence around it falling down in parts.
Looks like a place to run away to .
“You kept horses?” I asked. “Back when your family lived here?”
“Oh, yes, I always keep horses,” Mr. Marsden said. “We moved to our new property over six years ago now, took the horses along with us.”
“How many did you keep here?”
“Two. Three, before my daughter took hers out to Memphis with her,” he said, nodding over at the stables. “I always keep horses. State of the world how it is right now, I need to ride. Keeps me from… hatin’ everything. You know.”
I pulled in a slow breath. “True words.”
He kept his gaze on me. “You ride?”
“I do.”
Sometimes, riding is the only place I am myself.
On Veil’s saddle, her black coat shining under the blue sky, I’m calm.
I’m not calm anywhere else.
In a fight, I use rage like a dirty burning fuel, an animal uncaged and desperate to win.
In bed, desire coils around me like a snake.
It’s a steady tightening grip. A chokehold.
A need for release, a need for lust, a need for power. I want to see that look in another person’s eyes when they realize there is nowhere in the world they’d rather be than with me . Under me. Above me. Inside me, or letting me push inside them.
For my whole life, I’d always felt… charged .
Like I was the human embodiment of a stormcloud, ready to crack into lightning at any instant. At any touch, whether it was violent or sexual.
But on the back of a horse? I was nothing like that.
It was the truest peace I’d known.
And I’d needed that peace, growing up with parents like mine.
When you can’t escape your cage, you’re forced to find the only ways toward peace that are available.
Mr. Marsden sighed loudly, cutting through my thoughts.
“Well, if you want,” he said, looking over at the stables, “I can refer you to my friend Rick Denton, over past the highway. He has a riding mare available for sale as we speak. Not all that young, but she’s a good one.
Rick can’t ride anymore. I’ll put in a good word for you, especially if you’re payin’ cash. ”
The storm inside me seemed to quiet, just for a moment, like brief sun passing through clouds.
“I’d like that,” I told him.
“Well, any other questions?”
The air suddenly smelled sweet and fresh. Not just honeysuckle. Over by the edge of the porch, I spotted a row of rose bushes along the front edge of the patio, in full bloom. The same crimson red as the tattoo on my wrist.
Something close to a smile tugged at one corner of my lips.
The spot on my wrist where the frat boy got feral last night and sank his teeth into my skin .
I met Mr. Marsden’s gaze. “Do you know where the Hard Spot Saloon is?”
“Hard Spot’s at the center of town. Laurel Ave. Across from the diner. If you head on down there, tell Kane he owes me a bag of mulch, though.”
“Right. I can meet up with you tomorrow. I’ll have the cash in my account.”
“ Cash ,” he said. “Well, hell. I hope to hear from you then, Mr. Lyons.”
I hopped into my truck and headed down toward the center of town.
I’d been keeping an eye on Max’s little barn house last night and this morning. When he mentioned having a stalker, I’d also found his online videos. He called himself The Cocktail Bro , and was catching quite a lot of attention lately due to some shirtless videos.
I scanned the comments all morning. People wanted to fuck him, of course, for the same reason I did. He was 22, blue-eyed, and an unbelievably hot piece of gym-bunny ass.
At the end of each of his videos, he said in his slight southern accent: “ That’s how we do it in Tennessee, baby. ” Always with a gorgeous golden-boy smile on his face.
It made my cock hard each time I rewatched it this morning.
But there were a few more alarming commenters. Guys I added to a list, to keep watch of their profiles. Rex67, blowbad, stunner_3, and HenryGia were the first ones.
He’d put his full name, Max Burnett, in his biography.
He also regularly filmed in the bar where he worked.
No sense of security. Too innocent for that.
But If anyone threatened Max, I was going to know. Anyone other than me, of course.
I looked out over the small house one more time, knowing the work I had ahead of me.
Good.
If I had to be out of Montana, far from every crime I’d committed, away from the wealth and bloodline that had been my palace and my prison for my entire life?
I was going to need a project.
I was going to need an obsession.