Page 38 of Roped

I prod his neck again. “Are they going to come back?”

He knows I’m talking about the wolves and he shakes his head. “Not until I call ’em back.”

“How did you know to do that?”

“Got ’em trained.”

“You trained wolves?”

“Been with them since they were pups,” he says, his voice low. “You spend enough time with an animal, it’ll pick up on things.”

“So you have, like, pet wolves.”

“Companions,” he corrects, his voice hard.

“What’s the difference?”

“A man doesn’t make pets out of animals; he makes companions,” he explains, his words firm, almost biting at “pets.” “A smart one anyhow. They were here before us. They know way more about the land than we do. You show respect to earn respect.”

God, fucking cowboys. Actually, fucking him and his crazy, twisted morals.

“Why did you do it?” I ask.

Again, I don’t have to specify what I’m talking about; he already knows, and his response is an angry clench of his jaw.

I’m not letting it go that easily. I want him to say the words. So I keep prodding. “Is it because you thought I ran?”

“We both know you don’t run fast enough.”

“So because of the snooping then?”

“Don’t got the habit of leavin’ my secrets lyin’ around for someone to find. So you can snoop all you want.”

“So then why?”

Another angry clench of his jaw as if he’s mashing the words between his teeth. But you know what, fuck it. I want him to say it. I want him to admit the truth. I press the tip of the knife harder and lean forward. “Say it. Say you did it because you hate me. Because you hate me so so much, the Turner Princess, that you wanted to traumatize me for life. You wanted to give me nightmares, scare me so bad that I won’t be able to sleep. Admit it. You did it because—”

“Because you traumatized me,” he growls, every line on his face standing taut. Sharp and tight. Even his scar juts out, looking furious.

I freeze. “What?”

In response he leans down, despite the knife at his neck, almost breaking his own skin. Not only that, he even puts his hands, that have been up since the moment I told him to put them there, on the tree, up by my head, looming over me, caging me in. I should tell him to back off. I’m the one with the knife here. I could drive it into his neck right now, but my words don’t seem to come, and my hand doesn’t move to strike. All I do is arch my spine against the tree and look up at him.

“I did it,” he says, his voice rough and heavy with cobwebs and gravel, “because you scared the fuck out of me. ’Cause when I realized where you were, my fuckin’ heart stopped. Didn’t even realize I had one anymore, not the one that beats. Thought it was damaged right alongside my head. But no, it’s there, and when it started back up again, it was beatin’ so fast, poundin’ like a fuckin’ maniac, that I thought it would beat right out of my chest. Every second I spent racin’ to get to you felt like a motherfuckin’ year. And then I get there and find you almost unconscious, on the floor, terrified out of your goddamn mind, and I thought I could tear that whole cabin apart with my bare hands. I thought I could set it on fire, burn it down ’cause I was too late. ’Cause somethin’ happened to you. Somethin’… bad.” He grits his teeth again, leaning into the knife even more, spearing me with his green eyes. “So I did it because you traumatized my head; you traumatized my goddamn heart. Because I wanted to teach you a lesson for givin’ me nightmares, makin’ me think I was too late, that I couldn’t save you. I set my fuckin’ wolves on you, Peyton, for puttin’ yourself in danger and scarin’ the life out of me.”

This is the first time.

That he’s said my name like a curse. And it sounds as bad as when he calls me Princess. No, it sounds worse because now I know what it feels like when he calls me that in his soft, gravelly tone. And I want him to say my name like that.

You ever, fuckin’ ever, put yourself in danger like you did tonight, I’ll let’em fuckin’ feed on you.

That’s what he said just after he pulled me away from the cliff edge too. I remember now. But I don’t understand. Why would it matter to him? Why would he care? Not only care but enough to be afraid.

“And you’ve been doin’ this to me for months now, haven’t you?” he bites out.

“What?”

“Makin’ me watch you. Goin’ out with all these men,” he rumbles, his face dipping even more, and I stiffen. “Even though you don’t like ’em. You don’t wanna be with ’em. You ditch ’em the first chance you get. You spike their drinks. You give them a fake address. Ain’t that right?”