Page 50 of Roped

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.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT’S BEEN WEEKS since I found out about his headaches because Haven dragged him into the kitchen, and I sing for him every night.

I’m not an expert or anything, but it’s something my mom used to do. One of the things I remember about her. I don’t have a specific memory of her singing to me, but I do have pieces here and there. Of her soft voice, humming around the house when my father would be at work or busy elsewhere. She doesn’t sing anymore, hasn’t sung in years, but I know every time I think of it, I feel better.

So I do it for him. For his headaches. I’m not sure if the singing helps. I’m not sure if he even listens to my voice. But I know there’s a camera in my room, and I know he has a habit of watching me. While I haven’t felt him out there in the shadows—not since that first night I was at Rawhide—I know he can still see me. Maybe I should feel foolish about it all. Singing to a man who’s always on the verge of hurting me. He hasn’t yet, but in his own words, that doesn’t mean he won’t. But I do it because of this connection we have. The one that I thought was all in my head but he told me was real. As real as my need to be the one. The one to soothe him, to take away his pain, his headaches, so he can sleep. Not Haven or her various medications, not anyone else but me.

It’s irrational. Our connection doesn’t mean anything. In fact, it’s cruel. Because no matter how much I want or how much he wants, I’ll always be the Turner Princess, not his Princess. Our bloody history will always be between us. So what I’ve been doing is really foolish. But it’s fine, because it’s not like I’m going to do it forever.