Branded

Chapter Thirty-One #3

To wreck me and trash my pussy. He puts me on my back and enters me in one thrust, my core still coming and fluttering around his length. As he growls against my mouth, “Daddy’s home.”

And then he ruts inside of me. He fucks me so hard that I know I’ll have bruises from his fingers on my hips, from the floor digging into the small of my back. I’ll probably have bruises inside my pussy from his cock too. I’ll be black and blue and so sore that I won’t be able to walk for days.

But it’s okay. I don’t care.

I only care about him and being as close to him as possible.

I only care about watching us fuck in the mirror.

He’s positioned us in a way so I have to tilt my head back to watch us upside down.

I crane my neck up and watch his body all sweaty and strong moving over me, pumping into me, and I watch myself taking his thrusts, my body moving up and down the floor like a doll.

Like his sweet little wife. His college girl. His dream girl. His Reverie.

The girl who loves him.

And maybe he can see all of that reflected in my eyes because he seems to quicken his thrusts if that’s possible. He makes them fast and dirty and mean and brutal. So much so that I want to close my eyes and lose myself in it. But I won’t. This is for him.

I want him to see. How much I love him.

And it only makes him angrier. The lines on his face are tight and stark. His jaw is clenched so hard that it seems made of granite. It seems painful. So painful that I cup his jaw with my soft hand and whisper, all the while looking into his glittering eyes in the mirror, “Arsen.”

Which is when he comes.

His body jerks and he growls. He pulls his cock out and spills his seed on my tummy.

It comes out in thick and hot lashes, pooling in my belly button, while some of it slides down my sides.

I wait for him to come down from his high so he can rub it into my skin like he always does.

But even before he relaxes, I somehow know he isn’t going to. He’s going to get up and leave.

When what I predicted comes true, the accuracy of it hits me in the gut.

It takes my breath away when he gets off my body and rises to his feet.

He’s still breathing harshly when he leaves me there, all battered and bruised, and goes in search of what I’m assuming to be his clothes. Somehow I make myself stand too.

Stand tall and bare.

Most of all, I stand bravely in front of the man who isn’t technically my husband but feels like it because I’m in love with him.

“I love you,” I call out to his back.

He’s standing at the chest, opening and closing drawers, fishing for clothes. He finds his jeans, and without a word or any sign that he heard me, he proceeds to put them on.

I open and close my fists, my heart racing in my chest. “I’ve always loved you.

Since the beginning. Ever since we were writing letters and I think it was because you made me feel alive for the first time in my life.

I’ve spent my entire life trying to hide, trying to suppress things, trying to not feel any excitement or joy.

But then I started writing to you and for the first time, I had no choice but to feel things and God, I… It’s scary but also so thrilling.”

I pause before saying, “I’m not going to lie to you and say that you’ve never hurt me or made me feel afraid.

You have. You lied to me, threatened me, scared me.

Used me. But somehow, you’re the only man who’s also protected me.

You also made me feel safe, worthy, chosen.

You’re the one who made me realize that strong and powerful aren’t bad things.

That rough hands can have a soft touch and sharp teeth can feel so good when they bite.

You’re the one who made me realize that I could take both, rough and soft touch, and still flourish.

Or that I’m beautiful both inside and out.

You taught me I could kiss while riding a horse and wear clothes that won’t hide me.

But most of all, you taught me what love really is.

It’s not toxic like what my parents had and it’s not careful like I wanted it to be.

Love is an adventure. It has highs and lows.

It scares you. It makes you feel safe. It’s reckless and thoughtful.

It’s the biggest contradiction there is.

Love is you. Because you’re the biggest contradiction of my life. ”

At this, I do notice a slight tightening of his frame. I notice a twitch in his back, especially where his brand is. That fancy R that he burned onto himself. Or maybe I’m just imagining things right now. Whatever it is, I need to keep going. I need to be brave. For myself.

For him.

So I keep talking to his back. “I know you… love someone else. I know that. You don’t talk about her.

You don’t talk about Annie but…” I watch his fists clench at his sides then and I swallow thickly.

“I know you loved her so much that you tried to kill a man for her. You branded yourself for her, you spent eight years behind bars for her. Even now, you’re ready to burn down the whole world for her.

And the old Reverie wouldn’t like that. She’d be afraid of the violence but now I get it.

I get why you’re doing this. I try to imagine it sometimes.

How you feel. How you felt when you… heard the news, when you realized you were too late and I’m going to be honest with you, it scares me.

It scares me so much that I don’t want to imagine it.

I don’t want to imagine something happening to the man I love.

And maybe it’s selfish but I’m finding out love is selfish too.

So I’m asking you, please, please, don’t do it.

I’m asking you as a girl in love with you, please don’t put me through the pain that you’ve gone through, that you’re going through.

“Because I know this revenge will kill something inside of you. You’re not this man, Arsen.

I know you don’t want to believe me but it’s the truth.

I know you. You’re a brother. Whose younger brother looks up to him and whose older brother wants you back for good.

You’re a cowboy in love with your land. You wake up with the dawn and work tirelessly on the ranch all day.

Then you spend whatever hours you have left working with your horses, trying to break them.

You rescue them, rehabilitate them. You care for them.

You try to make them feel safe. But most of all, you’re a man capable of love.

I know you think you’re like my father but you’re not.

My father pushed my mother down the stairs, but you’re ready to destroy your life for the woman you loved.

All because you think it’s your fault that she died.

It’s not. It’s theirs. You didn’t kill her; you’re trying to avenge her.

So please, please don’t do this. Please don’t hurt yourself.

You always tell me how I need to be free, don’t you?

How I need to live my life. And I will. I’ll leave.

I’ll do all those beautiful things. I’ll build my future.

But please don’t make me live in a world where you have none.

Don’t make me live in a world where you’re suffering and in pain.

Please, set yourself free for me. Just live, Arsen. Please.”

My cheeks are drenched with tears. I only realize that when I’m done talking and I taste salt on my lips. I also realize that I’m still naked, and somehow when I’m not talking and being brave, I’m more aware of it. I become even more aware, though, when he finally turns around.

His face a cool, stony mask. His eyes dark but dead.

It’s not as if I thought this would be easy. I’m asking him to give up something he’s been wanting for eight years now. And given how much he loves Annie still, I knew it would be a hard ask. But I had to do it. I have to do this. I’m not going to let him destroy his life for revenge.

I didn’t want it before, and I want it even less now, after seeing that file.

So I have to make him understand. I open my mouth to say something. I don’t know what, though, because I ran out of all my words just now, but he gets there first. “Put some clothes on and get out.”

I fist my hands. “No.”

His jaw clenches. “Don’t make me drag you out of here.”

“Do it,” I dare him.

Only because I know he never will. He’ll lose his mind first before dragging me out of here naked.

As I said, I know him.

And when his chest swells with a breath that seems resigned, I loosen my fingers. But I guess I did it too soon because he begins to walk then, heading to the stairs. I call out his name, but he doesn’t stop. So in my desperation, I say the last thing I wanted to say: “I’ll tell them.”

He stops, again with his back to me, and I can’t help but find this so tragically poetic. That all I can see is the brand he put on himself because of the woman he loved when I’m asking him to do the unthinkable.

“I’ll tell them everything,” I say and then immediately want to vomit because the words are repulsive. “I have leverage now. You gave it to me that night. So if you don’t give up on your plan, I’ll tell them what’s happening on the ranch.”

I press a hand to my belly and wait for him to turn around. Give me some reaction, anything to work with. But he resumes walking. He continues down the stairs, his back straight and made of steel, his brand standing pale and stark on his bronzed skin.

When he’s almost at the bottom, I panic. I do it so hard that I say the only thing I have left in my arsenal. That it sounds exactly like his name is the irony I’m trying to ignore as I call out, “She was a mole.”

That stops him. Dear Lord, that halts him in his tracks, and it also gets him to turn around.

His eyes clash with mine and I grip the railing with trembling hands.

I clench my eyes shut for a few seconds because I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I can’t believe I’m telling him this, but I have no choice.

I open my eyes and my tears make his sight blurry as I say, “I-I broke into Marsden’s office today.

And his safe. The one that’s in the wall behind your parents’ portrait.

I-I saw it the day Peyton and I went into the office where we got the map to the cabin.

I blackmailed Axton to open the safe for me and I…

” I clench my eyes shut again and this time, feel the tears fall down my cheeks as I continue, “There was a file. I-I think it was Marsden’s.

It had all this information about Annie.

Her birth date, the city she was born in, those kinds of thing.

And a PI report about how she came to Black Rock because she was working for the Turners.

Hank Turner. There were bank receipts from him depositing money in her account every month.

It said that it was most likely she was spying for them.

She was…” A sob catches in my throat, but I keep going because now that I have started it, I need to finish it.

“Arsen, I think… I think she was using you. I think the Turners were using her to get to you and your land. She wasn’t…

I know you loved her but she probably didn’t… ”

“She did,” he says, his voice rough and low.

“But I saw—”

“Yeah, you don’t know what you saw. You’ve got no clue about anything.”

“Arsen—”

“In an hour when I come back, if you’re still here, I’m draggin’ you out, naked or not. Because you’re not a Turner or a Grayson. You’re just some girl I made the mistake of puttin’ through hell and then fuckin’. So get gone before I make you gone.”

With that he leaves, and I fall down to my knees, sobbing as I crawl to our bed.

I don’t know how long I stay there, crumpled in a ball, sobbing for my broken heart, for breaking his heart by telling him the truth. But at some point, shame becomes too much for me and I don’t care about being brave. I put his discarded T-shirt on and wrap myself in his sheets.

The only way I know that an hour has passed—although it feels longer, much longer than that—is when I hear the creak of the stairs followed by a pair of arms wrapping around me.

I’m about to hold on to them because he’s back and he isn’t dragging me out like he said when I realize it’s not him at all.

It’s a man in a mask, and before I scream, he’s putting his hand on my mouth and I’m sliding into oblivion.