Branded

Chapter Eleven #2

Even though we’re not touching, his words vibrate through my body, raising goose bumps. “Are you going to stab him too if I ask him for help?”

I hate that my words sounded more breathy than stern. But he’s so fucking close and his breaths are so warm and I want him to get away from me.

“I’ll stab him if he touches you.”

“That’s—”

“Or if you touch him.”

“What?”

“So you better save all your pleadin’ and beggin’ for me,” he goes on, his voice deep and sort of hypnotic.

I curl my fingers into a fist, still keeping my back turned and my eyes straight ahead; I have no clue what I’m seeing, though, because something occurs to me. “Did you… Is that why you stabbed Sheriff Cooper in the arm specifically? Because I t-touched it.”

Because that’s what he did, didn’t he? He stabbed Cooper’s arm, and before that he kept staring at it with a dangerous intent.

A strange kind of intensity wafts from him and his voice. “Don’t like when men put their hands on things that belong to me just as much as I don’t like those things putting their hands on other men.”

My heart jumps to my throat, beating in a mad rhythm. “That’s… that’s psychotic.”

“Maybe.”

“And I’m not a thing,” I remind him.

He hums. “Semantics.”

“And I definitely, definitely do not belong to you.”

“I’ve got a paper in my pocket that says different.”

At this, along with my rapidly beating heart, the blood starts rushing in my veins like crazy too. “That paper does not hold up.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a lie. You forced me to sign it under false pretenses.”

He hums again. “Well, you did sign it, didn’t you?”

“That doesn’t—”

“It’s your name on there.”

Something about his tone makes my belly churn. It feels knowing. Like, somehow, he knows that I’m lying. It’s impossible, though. There’s no way for him to know. I won’t let him know.

“Isn’t it?” he prods when I stay silent.

Breathing in deep, I straighten my spine. “Yes.”

“So then, you’re mine.”

“I’m—”

“And no one puts their hands on what’s mine.”

I close my eyes for a second and gather myself. I curl and uncurl my fingers. I fist my dress and suck in my belly. All in an attempt to not fall apart at his rough tone. His possessive tone.

Clearing my throat, I change the subject and try again: “Who is he?”

I feel him shift behind me. “His brother works at Rawhide; one of the wranglers.”

“What are we doing here?”

“You’re about to find out.”

“Why can’t you just…” I breathe in and out for the hundredth time before I continue, “Tell me about last night.”

“What about last night?”

“What happened after I fell asleep?” I ask because for some reason, I can’t get it out of my head. “No matter how scary it is, I need to know.”

“What do you think happened?” he asks in return.

I clench my teeth. “I don’t know; you tell me.” Before he can answer, I continue, “And if you lie to me again, I’ll lose it, okay? I’ll fucking lose my shit.”

He waits a beat to answer. “I left.”

“Left.”

“For a little bit.”

“Where?”

Again, he takes a second to reply. “To find someone.”

I’m confused. I don’t really understand what he means, but then it hits me, and my body goes tight. “You… you went to find a g-girl?”

“Yeah.”

My heart clenches so hard, so viciously, that I can’t even pretend it’s not jealousy. Which is insane on a whole ’nother level that I don’t want to analyze right now. Especially when I blurt out, “On our wedding night?”

I can’t believe I said that. What is wrong with me?

“It was, wasn’t it,” he says, and I swear he feels closer, and his words sound almost tender.

“I-I shouldn’t have said that,” I stutter, stopping myself from rubbing my arms and chasing away the goose bumps at his voice.

“Didn’t think you’d want my hands on you, though.”

“I don’t.” Then, to emphasize, I add, “I absolutely do not want your filthy criminal cowboy hands on me.”

“So it’s a good thing I found someone, isn’t it?”

I clutch my dress, my wedding dress, my stomach bottoming out. “You did?”

“Uh-huh. Meaning, you’re safe from me, from my hands.”

“I’m not safe with you,” I say, flinching at his “safe,” my chest still tight. “I’m never safe with you; and how do I even know that you didn’t?”

“I didn’t what?”

“T-touch me.”

Again, I can’t believe I said that, that I went there. I don’t know what’s happening, why I’m saying all the wrong things. So I go to take it back. I also go to turn around, because this is not helping. Him so close, whispering things; and me, not looking at him, just listening to his words.

It feels like before.

Like when I’d read his letters in my room, lying in my bed, and imagine him saying the words out loud to me. So this is messing with me, with my head.

But before I can do any of that, he whispers, directly in my ear, “Maybe I did.”

And I freeze. “What?”

“Touch you.”

“You…”

“And maybe I did find someone,” he says, unbothered by my loud breaths, heaving chest. “She was willing. No, she wanted it. She knew how to dance too, knew how to writhe and grind and twist on my lap like the top-notch stripper she was. But for some reason, she wasn’t doing it for me.

So I came back. I raced back to the motel and as soon as I saw you on the bed, unaware and sleeping, I realized why. ”

“Why what?”

“I realized”—he moves closer, and I swear to God I feel him pouring his words down my ear—“she wasn’t the one I wanted. I wanted someone else.”

I close my eyes because I know what he’s going to say. And I need to brace for it. I need to brace for his lies.

“I wanted a girl with hair like the sun and eyes like the sky. Who smells like the buttercups that grow on my ranch.”

My eyes pop open. “B-buttercups.”

He hums. “That smell sweet like roses and tart like citrus.”

“I…” I swallow thickly, my eyes unfocused. “I smell like t-that?”

“Yeah. It’s hard to breathe around you.”

“I-It is?”

“It’s hard to ride in the car with you.”

I shake my head. “I… I didn’t—”

“It’s hard,” he whispers again.

I swallow, unable to say anything.

“Makes me wanna throw you in the trunk just so I don’t have to breathe you in.”

I flinch. “That’s—”

“So maybe when I came back, all hard up and turned on, and found you in the bed, I did touch you.” Then, “Like I always told you I would.”

I go still.

“You remember that, don’t you?” he goes on.

I do. I remember it from one of his letters. I’ve read that one so many times now that I can recite the words with my eyes closed. I know exactly where on the page that sentence is, the one where he talks about touching me.

I know.

But I shake my head again. “Don’t. Don’t talk about that.”

“How I said,” he goes on, “that if I ever saw you, I’d have to put my filthy criminal cowboy hands on you.

Because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.

And I wouldn’t just touch you. I’d grab you and grope you and I’d do it so fucking hard”—I flinch at the way he says it—“that I’d brand you with my mark. ”

There’s that word again. And God, something is seriously wrong with me because I have to clench my thighs at it. I have to clench my tummy just at the thought of his brand on me.

“I’d brand your skin that I always knew would be like silk. But you wanna know what the kicker is?”

I keep shaking my head. “I don’t want to talk about letters.”

“I just didn’t know how silky. I couldn’t even imagine how fucking soft and rounded and ripe your body would be.

How much I’d want to bite it with my teeth, squeeze it with my fingers.

Eat you like the piece of fruit you are.

Like a peach, maybe.” I feel him getting even closer, still not touching, though, but so, so close.

“Or a cherry. A red and juicy cherry that you want to suck on.”

“I—”

“And the thing is, you really are a cherry, aren’t you.”

“What?”

“Untouched and innocent.”

“I—”

“Ripe but so fucking tight.”

I clench my legs again. “Just stop.”

“So maybe when I saw you last night, I lost my mind. But there’s one flaw in this whole thing.”

“What f-flaw?”

“You would’ve felt it.”

“I don’t—”

“You would’ve felt me inside you. Pulsing and throbbing and fucking stretching you out. Even when I tranqed you, you would’ve felt me breaking you in and making you bleed. Because I’m just that big, darlin’, and you’re just that small.”

Why did he have to say that? Why did he have to call me darlin’ and in a way that reminds me of melted butter and sticky syrup?

“Don’t call me that,” I protest.

“So no, I didn’t touch you,” he finishes.

“Because if I had, you wouldn’t have slept through it.

That place between your thighs would be so sore and throbbing you wouldn’t be able to sit in the car like you did, driving me crazy with your buttercup scent and your sassy mouth.

” Then, “Besides, I don’t stick my dick in a Turner.

And you’re a Turner, aren’t you? So as I said, you’re safe. ”

At last, I spin around and look up at him.

His eyes are dark and lazy, heavy-lidded, and there’s a flush up high on his cheekbones.

But I ignore all of it, including the fact that I probably look the same, and say, “Stop using that word. Stop saying safe. I’m not safe with you.

How can I be safe with you? You keep lying.

You keep hiding the truth. You keep manipulating me, forcing me, threatening me.

I don’t… How am I supposed to be with you?

What am I supposed to do? You ruined my life, do you realize that?

Do you realize how hard it is to be with you?

And I… I can’t… I can’t do this. This is…

You have to promise me. You have to freaking promise me that you won’t lie.

You…” I grab my forehead, looking away. “God, what am I doing, what am I doing? You’re never going to promise me anything.

You don’t care about me. You never did. You’re selfish and manipulative and cruel and I’m stuck with you. I’m—”

“Okay.”

I blink, feeling dizzy. “What?”

His heavy-lidded eyes are back to normal and the flush that made his cheekbones look all sharp and brutal is gone. He says, “I won’t lie.”

I take a few seconds to respond: “You won’t.”

“You are stuck with me,” he says, his gaze boring into me. “You’re stuck with me for as long as I want because I forced you to sign on the dotted line. So the least I can do is make a vow to never lie to you.”

“A vow?”

He keeps his dark gaze steady. “Consider it my wedding vow.”