CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
She’s wearing a yellow dress, and paired with the thick braid down her shoulder, she looks like a good little princess sent to torture me.
Sometimes when I look at her, I can’t decide whether I want to hurt her for making me feel this way, scare her for making me feel so feral and possessed, so deeply entwined with every little thing about her; or wrap her in my arms like I did up on that cliff so no one ever gets to hurt her or make her cry; no one ever gets to look at her or touch her.
This ain’t sane, Rad. Her daddy killed your parents and turned you into a monster.
That’s true. Only I don’t know how to stop looking at her like she’s mine.
Mine, mine, mine. Not that she has a clue, like always.
She doesn’t know that I’m standing only a few feet away, watching her.
Like I’ve been watching her for months. Like I watched her last night and the night before that.
On the camera feed. Although a screen has never been able to do justice to her.
I can’t smell her through the screen, for one.
I take a whiff of the air now, and this fucked-up connection between us—again, if I believed in bullshit like that, I’d call it fate—lets her know I’m here, and her little hands freeze.
Maybe that’s why I did it, smelled her like the prey she is, to let her know I’m watching.
To see her plump mouth part and her cheeks go pinker.
Her delicate throat moves with a swallow and her eyes skitter up.
My fucking breath freezes at how goddamn beautiful she is.
How she never flinches away from me. No matter how much I scare her, make her quake and shiver, she never, not once, looks away or cowers.
Like the others. Back when I didn’t know she was who she was, I’d wonder about that.
I’d wonder what she’d do if she ever saw me, saw my face, my scars.
Would I scare her? Would my princess be disgusted if she knew a monster, scarred and ugly, watched her like he was trying to search for the meaning of his life in her?
She surprised me when she didn’t. Not the night I saved her when she could partially see the thick scar that I’m never able to hide no matter what I do. Not even when she saw my full face in the woods. And goddamn that makes me go hard. Hard and aching and hungry for her.
“Here.”
I hear Haven from beside me, but I don’t take my eyes off the only girl I want to watch until the end of time.
Not until she straightens up, gives me a peek of her heaving tits in that pretty dress, and looks away.
What the fuck was she talking about when she called her tits small?
They’re perfect. Perfect little handfuls.
Perfect little mouthfuls, too, if I put a little effort into it.
Not that I’m going to, but still. Breathing through my nose to calm down my raging hard-on, I turn to Haven.
She gives me a look like she knows what I’m thinking.
But I highly doubt it. My thoughts about the Turner Princess would scare her and she’d never look at me the same.
In any case, I ignore her look and glance down between us.
She’s holding a little pouch in her hand, offering it to me.
Instead of taking it, I look back up at her.
Sighing and rolling her eyes at me, she goes ahead and, grabbing my hand, puts it in my palm herself. Then she smiles at me all sweetlike and I grunt.
Her smile widens. “Aren’t you going to ask me what this is?”
I curl my fingers around the tiny sack. “Reckon you’ll tell me anyhow.”
She rolls her eyes again. “It’s yarrow.”
I frown in response.
“For your headaches, Rad,” she explains.
My gut tightens and my fingers flex around the pouch.
“Last time, I gave you the prairie coneflower, but you said it didn’t work. So try this. I saw it in my grandma’s journal. She said to steam at least five leaves in hot water for instant relief.”
I clench my jaw as I feel her watching me. “Don’t need it.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Why not?”
“’Cause I’m cured.”
“Oh, really?” Haven widens her eyes. “So your headaches that you’ve had on and off for over fifteen years, that don’t let you sleep most nights and for which I’ve been trying to find a perfect remedy for the longest time, are just gone?
” She gasps in mock surprise. “That’s a miracle, Rad. Please share your secret with us.”
This time, I go for Haven’s hand and put the little bag in her palm. “It’s called shut your mouth and let me live in peace. How about we try that this time, yeah?”
She exhales sharply. “Take it.”
“No.”
“Why don’t you ever listen to me, Rad?”
“I listen,” I say. “Just don’t really do as you say.”
She stomps her foot. “You’re worse than Arsen.”
I grunt again, ready to leave.
“Okay, at least let me take a look at your side,” she says, concern etched in her features. “I know you said one of the fillies kicked you in the ribs, but you’re really walking funny and favoring your left side.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Peyton sitting up even straighter at this.
Her fists clench and her breathing changes.
Gets faster, anxious. I bet if I looked at her, I’d find those perfect tits of hers jiggling too.
Fuck, why can’t I stop thinking about her tits?
I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve got a long list of things on her body I want to suck on.
And her tits are in the top two. A very close second to her princess pussy.
And like the bastard I am, I choose this moment to think about—for the millionth time since it happened—how she was in my arms that night, writhing and moaning.
How good her cunt smelled and how she drenched me.
Clenching my jaw, I try to focus. But not before I take another whiff of the air, trying to hunt down the scent of her pussy under the smell of cupcakes and her flowery lotion.
“Again, I’m fine,” I tell Haven.
But Haven is determined. “But can I please take a look at it? Maybe you broke something.”
And Peyton’s breathing quickens. I know she’s concerned.
She was concerned two days ago when she stabbed me, or rather when I made her stick the knife in my ribs.
While I’ve not seen her in person or had any contact with her since then, I know she’s still worried.
She’s sweet like that. Sweet and innocent, worried about the man who’s going to destroy her life.
It only makes me want to keep her more. Possess her, rope her like she really is the reward I’m owed, and not the cargo I need to deliver.
“Didn’t break nothin’,” I tell Haven and her.
It did need a few stitches, though, that were easy enough to do on my own.
But as I figured, it’s just a regular wound.
Hurts like a fucking bitch, but then again, that was the plan all along.
To hurt. For everything that I’ve done to her and for everything I’m going to do.
Regret is new for me, and she’s the only one who’s ever been able to pull it out of me.
I can’t let it stop me, but I can’t deny, it’s a big fucking thorn in my side. Just like this wound.
“But—”
“It’s just a little thing,” I say, cutting Haven off. “It’ll heal in its own time. Have had much worse.” Then, just because I’m an asshole and can’t stop myself, I add, “You wanna worry about somethin’, how about you worry about lettin’ her play with our food.”
“What?” Haven asks, outraged.
“She’s a Turner, ain’t she? Can’t trust ’em as far as you throw ’em.”
I know it was a low blow, and I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
But then, my Princess is the only one who makes me want to talk.
And if I hadn’t, then I wouldn’t be able to hear her outraged gasp and see her blue eyes staring daggers at me when I finally turn to look at her.
I wouldn’t be able to see her swanlike throat flush with anger and her small hands fist. I bet she’s thinking of cussing me out.
I even see her mouth part as if to say something, but she snaps it shut at the last second and I feel my palms itch.
I give myself five seconds to burn her into my memory, exactly like she is, before I spin around and stride out.
I hear Haven calling my name, demanding that I apologize.
That I can’t bring the Grayson–Turner “idiotic rivalry” into her kitchen, but I don’t pay her any mind.
I’m done with familial duty for the day.
Just as I’m done with thinking about her.
But I already know it’s a lie when my hand creeps down and massages my dick at the image of her angry eyes and flushed cheeks.
Her good-girl braid and her yellow dress.
Her scent that follows me out of the house.
But I better get this fucking obsession under control because in two weeks’ time, I’m taking her into the lion’s den and salvaging what’s left of my life.
I watch her in her blue bed. It’s late, and she’s doing what she always does before getting ready for bed: braiding her hair.
I’m watching the camera feed and massaging my hard cock through my jeans as her small hands work deftly.
A second later I freeze when, still busy, her eyes downcast and lashes casting shadows on her pale skin, she starts to sing.
Softly, gently, as if singing a lullaby.
It’s no more than a hum, shy in its volume and tone, but fucking Christ, it makes my dick hurt.
It raises goose bumps all across my heated skin, and I have to throw my head back into my coarse pillow and close my eyes, groaning.
I don’t know how long she sings, but I keep squeezing my dick through it.
At one point, I come, can’t say for sure.
All I know is that I’m relaxed like I’ve never been.
I’m drowsy, for the first time in a long time, without having to put myself through a rigorous ride or beating someone up.
All I know is that the noise inside my skull is gone, and I don’t remember my temples pounding.