Branded

Chapter Twenty-Three #2

“You’re such a…” I breathe in deep before proceeding with, “You’re a liar.”

A light frown emerges between his eyebrows as if he’s confused. “Thought we covered that too.”

“Your shooter friend,” I bite out, getting up in his face, “the one you told me was waiting to shoot my best friend’s brother but was really not?

Now as it turns out, he isn’t a shooter at all.

” At my words, his frown clears off and he breathes out.

“Apparently, he doesn’t like guns all that much.

” I keep going: “He won’t even shoot animals. ”

He breathes out again, this time muttering as if to himself, “Yeah, forgot about that.”

At his acknowledgment, I jerk in his hold again, trying to get free and smack him across the face some more, because I’m not done yet.

But he overpowers me, and all I can do is glare and snarl, “Of course you forgot about that. You’ve told so many lies, it’s a wonder you can keep them all straight. ”

His jaw—which I can’t help noticing is even more stubbled now and has crossed the line over to a light beard—clenches as he pushes out a breath. “So is that why you were followin’ me? Because you found out Rad won’t touch guns?”

“Yes,” I snap. Then a second later, “No.”

He watches me for a few beats, his frown back and thicker than before. “Why don’t you figure it the fuck out first and then launch yourself at me?”

He loosens his hold on me then. Big mistake.

Huge. Because the moment his fingers leave my wrist, I launch myself at him again.

I smack and slap and punch and kick and even bite.

I’m not sure what part of his body I managed to get my teeth into, but it felt like the side of his neck; now I’m subdued again.

This time with brute force. That he still doesn’t physically hurt me, even with the way he has his fingers so tightly wrapped around my wrist, is something I don’t want to put a lot of thought into. Not right now when I’m so angry at him.

His chest rumbles with his words: “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“You,” I snap, fisting my fingers in his grip. “You are my problem. Everything wrong in my life is because of you.”

His nostrils flare and his chest almost shudders with his large breath. “So maybe for once, you should act smart and stay away from me instead of fucking tailin’ me the moment I leave your fuckin’ sight.”

God. I hate him. So much.

My own breaths are all large and choppy, too, as I repeat, “Let. Me. Go.”

“Calm down first.”

His answer only manages to enrage me. “If you start talking to me like you do to your horses, I swear to God, I’m going to lose it.”

His jaw pulses. “More than you already have?”

“You—”

“And you already know what I like to do to calm you down, so unless you want me to get on my knees and spread your thighs so my mouth gets to work between them while the whole town is just across from the barn, you’ll do as I say and calm the fuck down, yeah?”

Maybe I can’t stop my thighs from clenching at his threat and my belly from feeling achy. But I sure as hell am going to ignore it. Instead, I glare at him through the darkness. And even though I’m so mad at him, I study his features.

It’s been almost two days since we’ve been this close, and now that I have him here, I try to find signs of his earlier discomfort.

Or some clue about what he did yesterday and all day today.

Because after he told us about his plan, he disappeared.

Rad gave Peyton some papers to sign, something to do with the power of attorney and the land.

And Peyton promised to pick up her brother’s weekly call tomorrow so as to not arouse suspicion about what the Graysons are planning until they’re ready to reveal it.

“You promised you wouldn’t lie,” I blurt out after a while.

His eyes shoot up and I realize he was studying my features too. Specifically, my mouth, the jut of my chin. The pounding pulse at the base of my neck. Because all these places tingle and burn.

“What?”

“I know you want revenge on the Turners and taking their land is the perfect plan. But I know you don’t care about it,” I say. “You don’t care about the oil, the money. That’s not your end goal.”

Something flashes across his face, something like a mix of surprise and… satisfaction—for what reason, I don’t know—before he says, “You know me so well, huh?”

I look in his eyes, my heart racing. “Yes. I know you. You can fool Peyton but you can’t fool me. So tell me what you’re going to do with it.”

At this, his features close down. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

I twist my hands in his grip. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

“Again, not your fucking concern.”

“You said you’d let them keep their business,” I say urgently.

“And I will.”

“But—”

He tightens his grip on my wrists, his fingers finally digging into my bones, mashing my pulse.

“Let it the fuck go, all right? It’s not your business.

In three weeks, all of this will be behind you.

All this bullshit. This war, this revenge, every single thing that I did to you.

I ruined your life, didn’t I? Well, in three weeks’ time, you’ll have it back.

All of this will be a memory to you. You’ll do what you always wanted to do.

Help people. Change lives.” His jaw clenches here for a second before he says, “Fall in fuckin’ love.

So why don’t you worry about your future more than what my endgame is? ”

Right. In three weeks, when he’s done taking the Turners’ land away and doing whatever the fuck he wants with it, I can have my life back. It will be like none of this ever happened. And I should want that. I do want that. That’s all I’ve wanted since he took me.

“What about till death do us part?” I say ridiculously, knowing he never meant it.

At my words, his fingers tighten around my wrists even more. “What about it?”

“You said that,” I remind him like he’s forgotten. “You said you won’t let me go. You made me promise that I won’t run from you.”

He was already smashing my pulse with his thumb, but now he’s absolutely crushing it, slowing it down as he says, “Yeah, that was before I figured out you’re the wrong girl.”

It’s like he smacked me, kicked me in the gut.

The wrong girl. The girl who’s expendable. I am that. I know it. I’ve always known it. I don’t know why it’s hitting me so hard, him saying that. Why it hurts so much that I want to double over.

“Jesus, look”—he lets me go completely and scrubs a hand down his face—“clue the fuck in, all right? I said that to scare you. To make it look like there was no escape. To make you feel powerless. And honest to fuckin’ God, I liked it.

I liked scarin’ you. I liked knowing I have power over you.

And for a second, I liked the idea of never letting you go.

Of keepin’ you once all of this was over.

For myself, for my amusement. Even though, God knows, I don’t deserve it.

I don’t fuckin’ deserve any peace in my shitty life after what I did eight years ago.

But I’m a selfish piece of shit who wanted it anyway.

All that disappeared though when I found out I fucked up.

And I’ll be the big man here and admit that I fucked up big.

I never should’ve dragged you into this.

You’re not a Turner. You understand how fucking lucky you are?

You’ve got no business being here. You’re not fuckin’ tangled up in decades of bloody history.

You’re clean. You’re free. So that’s what I’m doin’. I’m setting you free.”

“But I’m not free!” I practically scream.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the entire problem. That I’m not free or clean. It doesn’t matter that I’m not a Turner. Because I still have a history.

I have a history with him.

A history of blood and lies. Of a cabin in the woods and meals around a fire. Of him scaring me and thrilling me and making me feel fucking alive for the first time in my life. We have a history filled with thirty-seven letters and sleepless nights. So no, I’m not free or clean.

I’m branded.

He branded me, and I can’t go back to my old life now.

I don’t want to go back to it. And Jesus Christ, this has to be the most insane thing that anyone has ever done. This has to be the worst case of Stockholm syndrome, and it’s all his fault, and I just…

I slap him again. And again and again, and I do it because I want to punish him, brand him like he’s branded me. But this time, I have things to say too. Disjointed, broken, rambling things that begin and end in strange places and probably don’t make any sense at all.

“You clue the fuck in, asshole. I’m not free.

I’m not clean and it’s your fault. You did things to me.

You stripped me naked. And you t-tied me to a tree.

You pointed y-your gun at me and made me suck it and I…

” I hiccup and smack his chest. “I’ve never f-felt safe in my entire life like I did with you.

So much so that I told you my biggest secret.

I told you about my f-father and how he…

I t-told you about my mother’s death and I’m supposed to just move on in three weeks?

Like none of it was real, like it never happened.

” I scratch his jaw at that, drag my nails along his neck.

“And you won’t even look at me. You pretend I don’t exist and I can’t stop thinking about if you got any s-sleep last night.

And that you missed your dinner yesterday and lunch today and how uncomfortable you were at the party.

But you don’t care that you left me in your room, told others to look after me when it’s y-your job.

You brought me here. You should be the one taking care of me.

You, not your sister-in-law or your b-brother who can’t stop staring at me. I’m yours. You made me yours and I…”