18. Ozzy
Ozzy
“ G ET OFF ME!”
My scream tears through the stale air of the cabin, hoarse and raw. My fingernails find Hugh’s scalp, and I yank as hard as I can. He howls, but doesn’t let go—not fully. His breath is sour against my cheek as he snarls, and then ? —
CRACK.
His hand connects with my face so hard that I see black. My head whips to the side, the world tilting as my body crashes into the edge of the table. My ribs rattle. Something warm trickles from my nose.
“You fucking whore,” he spits, grabbing the collar around my neck and yanking it tight. My lungs seize. My vision pulses at the edges.
“Still fighting?”
Patrick’s voice slithers in from the other side of the room, too calm, too pleased. I can hear him by the fireplace. The metal tools clink against the iron rack like the opening notes of a nightmare. “Weeks, and she still thinks she has teeth.”
I force myself to lift my head.
The fire glows like a monster’s open mouth. Inside it, on the rack, sit five round irons. Red-hot. Hissing in the flames. My gut twists.
“You know…” Patrick drawls as he puts on thick gloves, not even looking at me. “Where I’m from, we have a name for wild horses who fight too hard. Stubborn. Too dangerous for their own good.” He grabs one of the brands, testing its weight. The room fills with a low hum.
“A Brumby.”
I gag on my own breath. He finally turns. And he’s smiling.
Hugh tightens his grip on the leash, dragging me across the table like I’m nothing. My knees hit the edge. The collar bites into my throat. I try to kick, to scream, but he’s stronger, heavier, and he has help.
Patrick rips my underwear with one clean tug. The fabric gives way with a sound that makes my stomach drop. I buck hard. I thrash. I scream bloody murder.
“You fucking touch me and I’ll ? —”
“You’ll what?” Patrick interrupts. “You’re already broken. You just haven’t accepted it yet.”
He lifts the iron. It’s glowing a backward capital “B.” And I know what it’s for. I know what’s coming.
“No—no, please—don’t ? —”
The table shakes with my sobs. Hugh pins my legs as Patrick kneels between them.
He leans in, voice like oil. “You know what they do with Brumbies, Ozzy?”
He presses the brand against the inside of my thigh, just for a second. Not touching—just close enough that I feel the heat pulse like a heartbeat.
“They tame them.”
And then he slams the iron down on my mound. The sound is inhuman. A sickening sizzle of meat, of me, cooking. The pain is indescribable. Not sharp. Not even hot. It’s everything. It’s lightning and blades and fire pouring into my nerves all at once.
I scream until my throat tears. Until my body bucks so violently I nearly slide off the table.
The smell—oh God, the smell. My own flesh, burned. I retch. My stomach heaves, but nothing comes up.
Patrick leans back, admiring his work. “One down,” he says, tapping the iron against the metal tray. It rings like a fucking bell.
My vision swims. My hips are trembling.
“Five to go.”
“Ozzy?” Jackson’s voice cuts through the fog.
My eyes blink open, lashes sticky with sweat. The room comes into focus in flashes—his walls, his boots by the closet, the curve of his jaw. I’m in his bed.
“Jackson,” I sob as I lunge for him, my hands fisting into his shirt like he’s the last solid thing in a collapsing world.
“Hey, baby,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around me gently. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
His voice. His tone. It holds me together.
“You passed out,” he murmurs, brushing the damp hair from my face. “You were gonna run to the store for Wyatt, remember? One second you were talking, and the next—” He chokes off and swallows. “I caught you. You didn’t hit the ground.”
“Is he okay?” My voice is hoarse. “Wyatt?”
“He’s fine,” Jackson soothes. “Fever’s already dropping. Derek went to the store for the supplies. Carter hasn’t let him out of his arms once.” I nod, exhaling in relief. Then I remember.
“I heard one of the other guys yelling for you. Said he wanted to show you something.”
Jackson thought for a moment before it must’ve hit him. “James? The one with the accent? He’s a horse tamer. He wanted to show me the new girl he got in. That’s what Brumby means, it’s like?—”
“Don’t,” I snap, louder than I mean to. My body jolts. “Don’t say that word again.”
His expression morphs into worry. “Ozzy… baby, I—I don’t know what’s happening?”
Taking a shaking breath, I nod as I slip the covers down. I unbutton my jeans, the motion mechanical. “I need you to see it,” I whisper. “I can’t keep hiding it.”
My fingers tremble as I lower the fabric and expose the horror carved into me. His eyes land on the burn, the warped flesh.
The crude brand: brUMBY .
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t flinch.
He just breathes, slow and steady, and looks at me like I’m not broken at all.
“Ozzy…” he whispers, like my name alone deserves reverence.
I pull my jeans back up, shame already climbing up my spine. “It’s what one of them called me. His Brumby. Please Jackson, I-I can’t hear that…not from you.” My throat tightens. “I know it’s disgusting. I wouldn’t blame you for being grossed out?—”
He leans over and captures my lips with his. The kiss is so soft and sweet, “I’ll never say it again, ever,” he whispers before kissing my forehead. “But don’t you ever call yourself disgusting. You hear me?”
Tears burn down my cheeks. “But I am.”
“No,” he growls. “You’re a goddamn miracle.”
He kisses my forehead, then my temple. “You think I see scars? All I see is strength.” His hand brushes mine.
“Am I feeling murderous because of what those sick fucks did to you? Yes. But you, Ozzy, you’re beautiful.
I’m attracted to you, scars and all. And if I have to kiss every one of them to prove that to you, I will.
” I feel my eyes well with unshed tears with his promise.
“That might take a while,” I breathe. “There’s a lot of them.”
His eyes darken. “I’ve got time.”
He trails kisses along my knuckles, my palms, up the scars on my arms. My breath catches as he reaches the inside of my wrist and lingers there.
“Jackson,” I moan as he kisses the inside of my wrist.
“Tell me to stop, Ozzy,” he murmurs against my arm as he continues to locate every section of scarred skin and kiss it. “You tell me to stop, and I’m off.”
A sob escapes my chest at his reassurance.
“I don’t want you to stop.” I whisper, the tears rolling as he moves to my shoulder, kissing the butterfly covering the burn scar from a fire poker.
He moves to my jaw and then my lips before looking me in the eyes.
He’s blurry from my tears. I try to blink them away, but it’s futile as more take their place.
“Ozzy, baby, you let those tears out. Don’t try to force them away. You are safe with me, you got it?” He holds the side of my face, and I nod weakly before he moves to my neck. My body stills at the feeling. I wait for him to change his mind and for the flashbacks to start, but nothing happens.
Jackson runs his tongue over the side of my neck, and I feel pinpricks run over me. “You’re so beautiful, baby,” he coos in my ear before slipping down to the other shoulder, running hot kisses all the way down my collarbone, making his way down my body.
“Jackson,” I moan through my tears as I feel the heat pooling in my center. It’s been too long since I felt this way. It’s almost shameful like I shouldn’t be getting turned on over him touching my scars. My marks, my disgusting reminders of?—
“Hey.” I flinch at the sound of his voice pulling me out of my thoughts. His eyes are on mine again, his thumb stroking my cheek. “You stay with me, Tink.”
“Jackson,” I whimper out, shame and embarrassment flooding my body. “I am scarred, inside and out.”
“Do you trust me?” he asks, and my eyes shudder.
Do I?
I look up at him, his body trapped between my legs. How he could easily dominate me, but I don’t fear he will.
“More than anyone else,” I answer honestly, and he gives me a half-smirk.
“Remember to say stop if you feel scared. Not self-conscious though, alright?” Furrowing my brows, I nod as he kisses me softly before trailing between my breasts, never moving my shirt and stopping at my jeans.
I stare down as he looks up at me “I’m going to take your jeans off, alright? ” he murmurs.
I nod, terrified and alive all at once.
When his fingers brush the waistband of my jeans, I flinch. He pauses. Waits.
“You still good?” Jackson asks, his voice low, gravelly, careful.
I nod, but it’s shaky. My throat’s too tight to speak.
He pauses, resting his palm flat on the top of my thigh. His warmth steadies me.
“Stay with me, beautiful,” he murmurs while nuzzling his face over my belly button.
I breathe through the panic, and it loosens—just a little.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He kisses my hip first. Not the scar. Not yet. Just the soft skin beside it.
“I’m gonna touch your thighs now,” he murmurs, and his voice alone nearly undoes me. “Just feel me, baby. That’s all you have to do.”
His hands glide up the insides of my legs, warm and slow, and I gasp as the sensation shoots straight up my spine.
“Good girl,” he purrs, voice like velvet dragged over gravel. “You’re so fucking soft under me. You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this—how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”
I tremble, every nerve ending wide awake. “Jackson…”
He looks up at me then, eyes burning with something I don’t know how to name. Worship. Hunger. Rage at the ones who hurt me. But not for one second does it feel like pity.
“Say stop, and I stop. Always,” he reminds me. “But if you’re with me, if you want this, let me make you feel good, Ozzy. Let me give this back to you.”
I nod again, surer this time. “I want to feel it. I want you.”
His groan is pure devastation. “Jesus Christ. You keep saying things like that, and I’m not gonna make it very far without ruining another pair of my goddamn jeans.”
He leans in, brushing his lips just over the top of my pubic bone. Not the brand. Not yet. My breath catches.
“I’m gonna kiss your scars now,” he tells me, not asking. Not hesitating. “Because every inch of you is mine to worship. And I mean that, baby. Every single inch.”
He starts at the first letter, the twisted, and raised ‘B.’ His mouth barely grazes it before he presses a kiss to the ruined skin. I flinch, not from fear—but from the rawness of it. From how much it means that he wants to.
“That’s my brave girl,” he whispers against the skin. “You’re doing so fucking good, Tink. You’re letting me see you. That’s everything.”
He kisses each letter, slow and deliberate. Every one of them feels like it’s burning away the years of shame. The pain. The silence.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses. “This body? This one right here? It’s mine now, if you’ll let me have it. All of it. All of you.”
I shudder. “Yes,” I whisper. “You already have it.”
He groans deep in his throat, pressing his forehead against my stomach like he’s trying to keep himself in check.
“I want to touch you, Ozzy. I want to feel how wet you are. But not until you tell me that’s okay.”
The words are a gift. A promise. A lifeline.
“Yes,” I moan, my voice catching. “Please, Jackson. I need you.”
His fingers move so slowly it’s maddening. He parts my folds like I’m made of silk, every movement gentle and deliberate.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re soaked. So warm. So perfect. You feel like heaven.”
His thumb circles my clit, featherlight, and my hips buck before I can stop them. He groans.
“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my girl. You feel that? That’s your body saying yes. That’s yours, Ozzy. That’s not theirs. They don’t own this. You do.”
I choke on a sob as pleasure begins to bloom, slow and warm and holy.
“More?” he asks.
“Please,” I gasp.
He begins to rub faster, causing my breath to hitch.
“Fuck,” he pants. My eyes flutter closed, but he catches my face in his hand. “No, baby, look at me. Stay with me. I want you to see how beautiful you are when you fall apart.”
I meet his gaze, and he kisses me again—this one deep, claiming. I moan into his mouth as his fingers work my clit, finding the perfect rhythm that makes my whole body shudder.
“There?” he asks, licking my lips. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t. I got you,” he pants, rubbing me with delicious pressure. “God, this sweet pussy is so hungry for me, isn’t she?”
My hips grind into his hand, shameless now.
“Jackson—”
“Needy cunt, I knew you wanted it—look how wet you ? —”
“Tink.”
I blink and stare up at him, his body over me again, his hand no longer touching me. His eyes look frantic. “Baby, let’s take a breather.”
It’s only now that I realize I’m sobbing, shaking and covered in a sheen of sweat. I grip him around his strong neck and pull his weight on top of me. I need him, his scent and his warmth, to ground me.
“I’m sorry,” I cry into his chest. I feel him try to pull back, but I cry in protest. “Don’t! Please, stay here.”
“Baby, I don’t want to hurt you.” He kisses the top of my head, and I whimper.
“Then don’t let me go,”
“Ozzy,” His breath catches as he tightens his hold on me, and I love it. I love the strength, the feeling of security and warmth. I love the feeling that I’m home. I freeze as I hear the tiny thought whispering in the back of my head.
I’m falling in love with this man.