Chapter Eleven #2
By the time we pulled into the ranch, the sky had gone pewter gray, clouds pressing low. I hopped out and started unloading the feed, arms straining with the fifty-pound sacks.
Rawley handled the bigger stuff—fence posts, rolls of wire—like they were pillows, stacking them with military precision by the barn.
I kept my head down, focused on the rhythm of the work. It helped, a little. Moving heavy things made the world shrink to just me, my muscles, and the task at hand.
But halfway through carrying a sack of chick starter, a wave of nausea hit so hard my knees buckled. I staggered, dropping the bag. The dusty sweet smell of feed turned sour in my nose, and I had to grab the truck bed to keep from going down.
Rawley was there in a second, hands bracketing my shoulders. “You okay?”
I nodded, sucking in a breath. “Just stood up too fast, I think.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You want to sit?”
“No,” I said, heat crawling up my face. “I’m fine. Promise.”
He watched me for a long beat, then jerked his chin toward the porch. “If you puke, aim away from the stairs. I just swept them.”
I laughed, weak, but the sound felt good. “Yes, sir.”
The nausea faded as fast as it came, leaving me shaky but upright. I finished unloading the feed, then leaned against the tailgate, trying to catch my breath.
Rawley came over and set a hand on my lower back. “You sure you’re good?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe just need food.”
He nodded, then pointed at the bundle of boards and wire mesh I’d barely noticed among the supplies. “You know what that is?”
I shook my head.
“Chicken coop kit,” he said. “Saw you looking at the catalog the other night, so I picked up the best one they had.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Gonna set it up by the garden, keep the predators out.”
I stared at the box, then at him. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. “You… did that for me?”
He frowned, confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
I bit my lip, feeling the stupid tears well up. “Nobody’s ever… you didn’t have to.”
He stepped closer, eyes softening. “You wanted chickens. You got chickens. That’s how it works.”
I tried to laugh, but it caught in my throat. “Thank you.”
Rawley brushed the hair from my face, his hand warm and rough. “You don’t have to thank me. Just keep those birds alive.”
I wiped my eyes, embarrassed. “I will.”
He grinned, then hoisted the box onto his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get this inside before the weather turns.”
We carried the kit to the mudroom, then unpacked the parts onto the kitchen floor. Rawley scanned the instructions, making low, unimpressed noises at the diagrams.
I grabbed my notebook and started sketching where I wanted the coop to go. The lines were still shaky, but I felt steadier with every stroke. Rawley watched, his mouth twitching at my concentration.
“You’re serious about this,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, surprising myself with the conviction.
He nodded, then grabbed a pencil and started making notes of his own—measurements, supply lists, ideas for predator-proofing. We worked side by side, the kitchen filling with the smell of sawdust and coffee.
For the first time all day, I didn’t think about Victor, or Melissa, or what the town thought of us. I just thought about the future. About chickens. About the coop, the garden, the rows of feed sacks lined up in the barn.
About belonging.
As we finished the plans, Rawley pulled me in close, his arms wrapping around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder, and for a while, we just stood there, watching the rain streak the windows.
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. I felt it in the steady beat of his heart, the way his hand never left my skin.
We had work to do. The world outside was getting meaner. But here, in this kitchen, in this house, I was safe.
I was his.
And, for the first time, I thought—maybe I could be happy here.
Night fell hard and fast, the cold wind rattling the windows while the house itself stayed warm, lit from within. Rawley and I spent the evening putting the finishing touches on the coop plans, then ate a dinner of scrambled eggs and the last of the sourdough bread.
Afterward, we washed the dishes together, moving around each other in the kitchen with an easy rhythm, both of us a little high on the quiet.
When the chores were done, he poured two fingers of bourbon into a mug and handed it to me. “Helps you sleep,” he said, though I wasn’t sure if he meant the drink or his company.
I sipped, feeling the burn warm my chest. He watched me over the rim of his own cup, eyes gone soft and liquid in the lamplight. There was something in his gaze that made my skin buzz, an anticipation that went deeper than hunger.
He set his mug down, then crooked a finger at me. “C’mere.”
I came, because it was always easier than pretending I wouldn’t.
He took my hand, led me up the stairs to the master bedroom. The house was quiet except for the slow creak of wood and the tap of wind-driven branches on the siding. It felt like a world apart—a bunker against everything outside.
He closed the door behind us and then turned the lock, a click that sent my nerves jangling. “Take your clothes off,” he said, voice pitched low.
I did, feeling my face burn as I peeled the shirt over my head, shucked my jeans, left everything in a pile at the foot of the bed. The room was cool, and the fine hairs on my arms stood up. I waited for him to undress, but he just watched me for a moment, hungry and deliberate.
Then, without a word, he picked me up and laid me down on the bed, pinning me to the mattress with his body. His hands slid down my wrists, capturing them above my head in one large fist. The pressure was firm but never cruel—just enough to remind me who was in charge.
He kissed me, deep and slow, his beard rough against my lips. I moaned, arching up to meet him, but he held me in place, grinding his hips against mine until I was shaking.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the words vibrating through his chest. “You know that?”
I tried to answer, but his mouth was already moving down, licking and biting at the column of my throat. He found the old claim mark, then bit me again, harder this time, until I gasped. The pain went straight to my cock, and I felt myself leaking onto my own stomach.
He growled, the sound animal, then released my wrists just long enough to hook my thighs over his shoulders. He buried his face between my legs, licking at my hole, tongue soft and hot and relentless. I clawed at the sheets, shaking so bad I thought I might break.
He worked me with his mouth until I was begging, then pulled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He flipped me onto my stomach, spread me open, and pressed two slick fingers inside. He stretched me, slow and thorough, until I was keening, the noise too loud in the hush of the old house.
“Please,” I said, voice cracked.
He didn’t make me wait.
He lined up, then pushed the head of his cock in, slow at first, letting me feel every inch. When he bottomed out, I almost sobbed, the stretch and fullness nearly overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he said, voice wrecked.
“Don’t stop,” I begged.
He didn’t.
He set a rhythm, hips snapping against my ass, his hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
Every thrust hit deep, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls.
He bit my neck, my shoulders, left a trail of teeth and tongue across my back.
I felt each one like a brand, like he was writing his name on me.
He reached under, wrapped his hand around my cock, and stroked me in time with his thrusts. I came so fast I barely registered it—just the rush, the burn, the white-out behind my eyes.
He fucked me through it, relentless, then came with a shout, driving in one last time and holding there, body shaking with the force of it. I felt the heat of him inside me, the pulse and throb as he emptied out, and I never wanted the moment to end.
He collapsed over me, pinning me to the bed, both of us slick with sweat and spent. We lay like that for a while, the only sound our ragged breathing and the wind at the windows.
Finally, he rolled us onto our sides, still connected, and wrapped an arm around my chest. His breath was warm on my neck, his hand splayed over my heart.
“You’re mine,” he said, soft enough to be a secret.
“Yeah,” I answered, not even pretending to argue.
We drifted, the room fading to black around us, the world outside nothing but storm and darkness.
Neither of us noticed the headlights parked at the edge of the property, far enough to be invisible to anyone inside, but close enough for someone to watch the house.
To see the single window glowing with lamplight.
To see, and to wait.
But inside, nothing touched us. Not yet.
We slept tangled together, safe in the heart of our new home.
And in the night, I dreamed of roots sinking deep, of hands building and shaping, of a future that might finally be ours.