Page 121 of Westin

“Touch me,” I whisper. “Sir.”

He slides his hand down my thighs, beneath the sheets and flannel. His touch finds my clit, and he pleasures me slowly in the dark. Outside, the world is harsh. Outside is where all the memories of the past live. Inside, there’s just me and Westin, buried beneath the quilt, skin on skin, voices hushed, little sighs of pleasure drowned out by the rush of the fireplace.

Both wrapped up in each other, trying to keep the cold out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

WESTIN

The morning comes late, as it does in the dead of winter. Outside, the world is frozen in brutal cold. Inside, my bedroom is warm, but the floor is covered in shrapnel from the night before.

I sit on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense. She sleeps, nothing visible but her blonde hair. The edges of my brand itch. It hasn’t itched in years.

My head is a mess.

The gunslinger is quick.

The gunslinger can kill without hesitation.

The gunslinger can’t protect his woman.

My head drops, my shoulders hunch. I’ve never felt such rage. All the things she said to me echo in my ears, all the clues I missed.

I should have killed them a long time ago. I should have burned their homes to the ground and shot them while they fled.

I didn’t.

Now, God as my witness, I will make sure there’s nothing left of David Carter when I’m done.

I want him in fucking pieces, but I have to be smart about it.

There are too many bodies already. When I kill him, it has to be untraceable.

She sleeps. The only thing I can think of to do is get her horses back from Carter Farms. If luck is on my side, David won’t be there by the time I arrive. I can’t think of anything else to help put her heart back together. So, I go out and put the trailer on my truck and get on the road.

First, I make a detour and head to the capitol building. Corbin Buchanan will be there, and I plan to have a more honest talk with him this time around, maybe let him know I’m not above threats.

There’s a gathering of men outside the meeting room doors upstairs. They stand around, hats on their heads, thick coats pulled over their suit jackets.

Corbin Buchanan is by the open door, leaning on the wall. There’s a tall man in a dark cowboy hat and work clothes standing with his back to me, to Corbin’s left. They’re talking like they’re friendly, but I taste friction in the air. As I draw near, Corbin looks up and narrows his eyes.

They both turn. My eyes fall on the second man, and my stomach sinks.

Jesus Christ, it’s Deacon Ryder.

It has been a while since that motherfucker came this far east. At least, that I know of; I haven’t heard his name lately. Deacon is the only man who makes Sovereign begrudgingly stop and listen when he talks. They’re not so dissimilar, him and Deacon. They’re both rough sons of bitches, with heads so hard they could break rocks with them.

Deacon glances over once. His jaw works. His broad body, as big as Sovereign but with more grace, takes up space with purpose. His dark hair is shorn with a little left on top. His features are harsh, his jaw square, his thick nose crooked in the middle. Over every visible inch of his body are scars and ink, faded from working in the sun.

He’s a mean motherfucker, and I pity the woman who ends up in his bed.

Black eyes fall on me. Deacon extends his hand, and I shake it.

“Why are you here, Ryder?” I say.

He shrugs. “I’m not banned from Montana. Yet.”

“That’s a fucking shame.”

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