“You don’t want to hear this.” I lower my boot to the ground.
“I have a scary imagination, most of it born in real life experience. I’m picturing the very worst. Trapped in a compound with violent men. Broken, bloody, raped…”
I expel a harsh “Fuck” and drop my forearms on the saddle, head down, and eyes on the horizon.
She steps beside me and rests her arms on the saddle, mirroring my pose.
“It’s segregated by races. Then by authority. Influence. Power.” I glance at her sidelong. “The pecking order is established immediately. New guys come in. You either make them your bitch or you become one.”
Standing side by side, we watch the breeze ripple the grasses. She steals peeks at me. I study her out of the corner of my eye.
She fucked men I was imprisoned with. Inmates who could’ve been my friends. Or my enemies. I see the faces of the ones released before me and know their crimes. Most would’ve killed to spend an hour with her. Many could’ve killed her after they got off.
I could demand she give me names and details, but nothing good would come from that.
“They know when the guards aren’t looking, where to attack, and how much they can get away with.” I scratch the stubble on my throat. “I was attacked a lot the first month. I went in too skinny, too young, and woke every day convinced it would be my last. Then I was ambushed in the bathroom.”
Pain stabs behind my eyes. The memories. The fear. The absolute hopelessness.
I crave a bottle of whiskey and the escape it would give me.
Her hand slides up my spine, gentle and supportive.
I slowly release a breath. “There were five of them. Before I could blink, I was on my knees with my face in the urinal. Hands restrained my arms while more pulled down my pants. I knew if they fucked me, my status would be established, and it would happen again and again.”
Her fingers curl around my shoulder, digging in.
“A switch flipped,” I say. “The same kill switch that shut down my brain the night I shot Wyatt Longley. Instinct took over. The mindless, uncontrollable impulse to hunt, destroy, and claim victory over my enemies. It controlled me in that bathroom. I don’t know how I fought back. I was just one person, but I was someone else entirely, like a monster clawing its way up the food chain.”
“You escaped.”
Did I?
My attackers limped away, but so did I. I’m still limping, still looking over my shoulder, still waking every night in a drenched puddle of torment.
I’m a pussy for letting the experience haunt me. I survived. I’m free. But when I close my eyes, I’m right back in that bathroom, fighting for my life.
The ravine, the abuse Conor suffered by my dad, the years I spent in prison, and John Holsten’s threat against Raina—these are my demons. They’re relentless and deeply embedded, howling at me day and night.
I’m still trying to escape.
Raina stirs at my side. “You have nightmares.”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you sleep outside instead of in the room with me? Because I can sleep on the couch or—”
“I missed the stars and hate the confinement of the house.”
“Thank you for telling me.” She rests a hand against my cheek, turning me toward her. She cups my face and draws me closer, resting her brow against mine. “I hear you.”
I grip her wrists, my thumbs roving across her silky skin, my entire body attuned to the pain in hers. “I hear you, too. I’m here if you want to talk—”
“I told you what happened to me. I even had a good cry in your truck. Now I just need it to be over.”
She pulls away and swings up into the saddle, her face angled toward the horizon and expression closed off.
The woman jumps at the chance to pick apart my insides, but the instant I turn the spotlight on her, she powers off.
Because she’s scared.
She told me her past, but she refuses to share her feelings about it. Doing so would invite me in and expose her innermost weaknesses and fears. Keeping that part of her closed off protects her from the monsters that prey on vulnerability.
Is that what I am to her? A monster? Maybe that’s how she perceives all men.
I grasp her thigh, squeezing the muscle hard enough to earn a sexy glare.
“Have you ever had a lover?” I inch my fingers upward, lingering on the crease of velvety skin where the cut-offs meet the bend of her leg.
“Am I talking to Horny Lorne now?” She stares at my hand, her chest rising and falling. “You should wear changeable name tags, so I can follow along.”
“Answer the question.” I slip under the denim, teasing hidden flesh.
She’s so warm. So fucking soft. One touch and I’m instantly hard.