Page 16 of Roped

“You’re a Grayson,” I breathe out, my throat dry and my breath choppy.

He doesn’t seem surprised to find me awake. Even though he’s kept his eyes on the road this whole time, I’m sure he knew the moment I opened mine and became alert. He also doesn’t seem surprised that I’ve finally put all the pieces together. I bet he enjoyed that, enjoyed watching me struggle with confusion. Just like he enjoyed stalking me, toying with me, hunting me all these months.

I fist my roped hands behind my back. “You hate me. You were born to hate me.”

A muscle jumps in his unscarred cheek in response.

“And I was born to hate you,” I finish.

Again a muscle jumps in his cheek, but that’s his only response and it makes me so angry. So fucking furious. All this time, all this fucking time, he knew. He knew what he was doing. He knew that because of who he is and who I am that he’s the biggest threat to me, to the Turner Princess. He knew everything, and I was the clueless one. I was the one left in the dark, and like a naive idiot, I used the darkness to dream. To weave stupid girlish fantasies rather than realizing I was in danger. That instead of simply watching me through my bedroom window, he could’ve climbed in at any time and grabbed me by the throat. And I would’ve gladly offered him my neck without realizing he could kill me if he wanted to.

“So this is…” I can’t seem to catch my breath; it’s as if he’s strangling me right this second. “So this is really about the land then? About… about my father?”

He of course doesn’t offer any help.

I should shut up now, but I can’t. I’m too afraid, too restless, petrified. “Are you… are you going to kill me?”

Nothing. Not even a twitch on his face or in his towering frame.

“Answer me,” I demand.

He doesn’t even spare me a glance.

My chest is heaving now. “Answer me, asshole. Are you going to kill me? Is that why you’ve brought me here? To your ranch.” When he still looks like he hasn’t heard me, I lean forward, despite my shoulders screaming in protest. “Listen to me. If I’m going to be murdered at the hands of a fucking Grayson, I need to know. Do you understand that? I need to fucking know that I’ll die because men like you exist in this world. Greedy and evil and fucking power hungry with dicks so small—”

My words come to a halt because the truck jolts to a stop, and I snap my eyes away from him to take in my surroundings. We’ve stopped at a circular driveway in front of what could only be called a mansion. The front is constructed of horizontal wooden logs, and there are wide steps leading up to a wraparound porch, complete with rocking chairs and potted plants. A giant picture window looks into a massive living space that houses a ton of leather furniture. For a few seconds, I don’t really get it. I don’t really grasp the existence of such a huge, sprawling, well-kept mansion when we’re supposed to be in a place of my nightmares. When there should be run-down cabins and barbed wire everywhere.

Is this where the Graysons live?

I don’t get time to process that, though, because once again, the truck jolts. This time because the man who brought me here climbs out and slams the door shut. I watch him round the hood and come for me. And God, I don’t want to show any fear, not to him, not now when I know who he is, but I can’t help but scoot away when he reaches the door at my side. I can’t help but flinch when he opens the door and his eyes lock with mine. All green and stunning, cold and mean. Just like his face. Just like the scar on the left side of it. I’ve dreamed of him for so long, of his eyes, that scar; I’ve felt him for so long, watching me, following my every move, seemingly keeping me safe, that as I look at him in this moment, I can’t quite believe it. I can’t believe that he’s someone I’m supposed to hate. That he’s someone who hates me. That this was all a ploy against my father.

“What’s your name?” I whisper, my heart slamming in my chest.

His nostrils flare.

“Are you really a Grayson?” I keep whispering.

He clenches his jaw before rumbling, “You’ve got three seconds to get outta this truck before I pull you out myself.”

“Is my f-friend in there?”

“One.”

“What?”

“Two.”

My heart slows down as I realize what he’s doing. “Are you…”

“Three.”

“You’re counting. You’re really—”

His chest moves with a sharp, impatient breath, cutting me off. And then he does what he said he’d do. He reaches in, grabs my arm, and yanks me out. I’m still getting my bearings from that when he spins me around. He pulls at my arm, making me gasp with pain. Before I can turn around to look at him, I feel him inch closer. His heat spans my spine and his thick rasp fills my ear. “Who I am don’t matter. All that matters is you’re the Turner Princess and this is Rawhide. So again, you’ll keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told.”

With that, he gives me a shove toward the porch steps. My stomach bottoms out, fearing that I’m going to fall, but at the last second I’m able to catch my balance. All of a sudden I can move my arms. Somehow he untied the knot without me realizing, and now my hands are free. I want to look back at him. I don’t know why. But I want to take him in as if for the last time before I scale these steps, but I don’t. He’s right. Who he is doesn’t matter. All that matters is I’m a Turner and this is Rawhide. That my best friend may be inside this mansion.

So I bound up the steps, my neck prickling from his stare, and push open the door. As soon as I do, a gush of a breath escapes me because the first thing I see is my best friend running down the hallway, her eyes on me. And then I’m not thinking of anything else but wrapping my arms around her and making sure she is okay.