Page 42 of Roped

For a few moments after he’s done sharing his secret with me—the one that I’m sure he’s never told anyone else—all I can do is study his face. The symmetrical lines of it. The hollows and the peaks. His strong jaw; his broad forehead. That scar running along the length of his face, steeped with danger and tragedy. I was right to think he was an otherworldly being. A phantom. A fallen angel. A cowboy, hard and rough, who saves defenseless animals by day and doles out vengeance at night.

Swallowing, I take a deep, determined breath and vow, “I won’t tell.” And then, before I can stop myself, I say, “I won’t tell anyone. Because I… My father”—his jaw clenches and anger flickers through his features for a second—“he’s killed people too. You know that and—”

“I ain’t like your daddy,” he growls, his green eyes hard.

My hands fly to his chest and grip his shirt. “No, you’re not. You’re not like my daddy. He’s only killed for greed. For money and power. More land. But I’ve never known anyone who’s done it for justice. And…” I clench my eyes shut for a second. “In an ideal world, if I was someone else, I’d condemn it either way. But this isn’t the ideal world and I’m… I’m the Turner Princess, aren’t I? I know what men are capable of. I know what my father is capable of, my brother. I’ve seen it. They’re the real monsters. And you’re not like them. You’re different. You may be just as ruthless and cold as them, but you know the value of life and death. You know what happens when someone dies, what they leave behind. You know.”

He has given me no reason to trust him. In fact, he’s done the opposite. But if I know one thing for sure, it’s that he’s one of those people. People who look in the mirror and are reminded of what was taken from them. He’s the one who hasn’t picked up the pieces of his life after what my father did to him. So yes, he knows, both what it means to be a victim of a killing and what it means to take a life himself. It’s not right, but I can’t find it in my heart to think of it as wrong either.

“Turner Princess,” he whispers.

My heart races and does it like crazy. Because again, he says it fondly.

He swipes his rough thumb over the corner of my mouth, pulling at my lip, and mutters as if to himself, “So fuckin’ sweet.” Then, “Wonder what she’d say if I told her the whole truth.”

It’s difficult to stay present in the moment when he’s toying with my lip like that, but I try to ask, “The wh-whole truth?”

He lifts his eyes, all green and glittering, piercing as he looks into mine. “Yeah.”

Something about how he says it, roughly, almost threateningly, makes me freeze. It sends fear churning into my belly and I let go of his shirt. I also take a step back from him, even though there’s nowhere to go and my back simply scrapes against the tree. It doesn’t escape him that I’ve retreated, and I think it amuses him. To the point where his mouth tips up in a very small, if not the smallest ever, smile.

I blink as I watch it happen.

He’s always so serious and angry, threatening and dangerous, that it didn’t even occur to me he could do that. Smile. It’s lopsided; the left side of his mouth, his face, hardly moves due to the scar, but somehow that makes it even more stunning. Devastating, more of a rare gem. His eyes have gone warm, too, and it suits him. And for a second I can’t help but wonder what he was like before everything happened. What was he like growing up, before my family destroyed his?

My thoughts disintegrate when, as if in response to me moving away from him, he comes closer. Still bent over me, he leans against his hand resting on the tree, his bicep bulging, crowding me in. Taking up every inch of my personal space. So much so that his chest grazes mine when he breathes and I think his blood might be getting on my dress. I certainly feel the heat of it seeping into the fabric and making it onto my skin. I bite my lip against the chill bumps it causes across my body, at the concern that he’s still bleeding out despite his assurances of being fine. I also want to tell him to move back when he slides his other hand up my cheek and buries it in my hair.

He uses the strands as ropes, wrapping them around his fingers, and pulls my head back. “That I’ve killed for one other reason.”

My heart pounds in my chest and I put my hands on the tree for support. “What reason?”

His look turns penetrating. “For a girl.”

I go still.

“Walkin’ back home in the middle of the night,” he continues.

I scrape my nails down the tree and grit my teeth. I know it’s from jealousy. I know it. Even more so than what I felt when he was talking about the calf he saved that morning. And honestly, if he wants to tell me the story of how he killed for some random girl, I’m going to lose it.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you should really stop talking,” I warn him.

His lips twitch with amusement, and damn it, that’s devastating too. “Yeah?”

I glare at him. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why.”

“Because if you talk about some random girl with me, I’m going to stab you again,” I tell him very seriously, and his stupid sexy lips keep twitching. “And this time, thanks to you, I know where to aim to make it really painful. So again, stop talking.”

Instead of heeding my warning, he inches even closer. So much that now our chests clash every time we breathe, and yes, now I know for sure that’s blood on my dress. Then, tilting my head back even more, he rasps, “When three motherfuckin’ assholes jumped her in a dark alley.”

I blink.

“They put their filthy disgustin’ hands on her,” he says, his features harsh, his scar thick.