Page 117 of Deacon

I can’t conceptualize that kind of autonomy. I close my eyes and let him stroke my hair. We have such a long way to go, but I’m starting to think there’s more to him than I thought.

Nobody but Deacon has ever given me anything, not unless I count the bugs Bittern brought me. Those were sweet, and they meant a lot, but it’s not the same thing as Deacon learning what I enjoy and bringing it to life.

“I can’t get back your collection,” he says, tucking my hair behind my ear. “But when it’s summer again, you can start a new one.”

“Thank you.” The word slips out, fragile.

He looks at me for a long time. Then, he taps my chin with the side of his finger. “I’ve got chores,” he says. “I’ll let you get to poking around.”

He’s gone, boots ringing down the stairs and hall. I cross the room and lean over the couch to look out the window. He walks down the driveway, his coat and hat on. I know it’s cold, although it never seems to bother him.

While I long for the mild winters of the south, I think he likes the sharp cold of the winter out west.

He disappears into the barn. A moment later, he appears on Bones. They linger in the yard for a second as Andy appears. They both talk for a few moments, then Bones circles, and they head off to the western pasture.

Awed, I traipse around the room, inspecting everything—sanded and glossed framing, painted walls, dark wood flooring. A rug the same deep blue as the ones downstairs. A black stone mantel. The enormous oak wood desk that surely wasn’t purchased in the last few days, stacked with empty collection cases. The right kind, to keep the moisture out and the specimens protected.

I turn. In the far corner sits a chest that comes to mid-thigh. Curious, I cross the room and unlatch it, dragging the heavy lid open.

My stomach swoops.

It’s full to the brim. There are books, still tied up in gift wrapping. I pick one up and undo the ribbon, turning over a collection of fairy tales. Underneath it is a bolt of pink dotted fabric, the receipt still pinned to it. I set the book aside and pick it up, leaning in to look at the purchase date.

Monthsago.

My stomach is tight, my heart fluttering. I set the pink dotted fabric down and tuck the receipt away, as if that will hide the realization I’m having.

He’s been buying things for me since before we officially met. For weeks—months. When I piece that together with the knowledge that he lied the day we met and said the highway was closed…well, I can only draw one conclusion from that.

Deacon Ryder will do what it takes to get what he wants.

My eyes come back into focus, fixing on the opposite wall. My stomach turns over. I get up and walk across, laying my fingertips onthe paint. It’s the same exact shade as the fern-green I always wear. It’s my favorite color, the same rich shade of the pines in the deepest parts of the Appalachian Mountains.

He has such an attention to detail. It’s gentle, like his touch.

My hands are unsteady as I close the lid, not interested in going through the rest of the contents. I know two things for certain now.

One—Deacon Ryder is a damn psycho.

Two—I’m glad he’s on my side.

I go downstairs. He’s still outside, the yard empty. I check the clock—it’s almost nine. I’m listless, shaken up by the attic room and unsure why I feel like I’m being pulled toward him like a magnet. I should run, but I can’t.

Not after seeing that room.

So, I open the fridge and start taking stock of what I can make for dinner. It’s absurd. He kidnapped me, and now he made it clear I can’t leave. And here I am, cutting chicken into strips and heating oil on the stove, cooking for him like he’s my man.

My brows crease in a frown. The golden oil starts to bubble on the bottom.

It’s bothering me that I don’t mind.

Maybe Deacon Ryder is my man, whether I like it or not.

Wrathfully, I batter the chicken and drop it into the oil. While it cooks, I dig under the cabinets until I find a waffle maker. My stomach craves comfort, so I make crispy waffles, fried chicken, and drag a jug of maple syrup up from the pantry.

He comes in as everything finishes cooking. It’s almost twelve, later than usual, because it took me a while to locate the things I needed. The food is piled on a platter on the table and plates are set out.

Quickly so he doesn’t notice, I give him a once-over. Right away, I have butterflies again. God, he looks good, all tall and sexy and dirty from being outside, sleeves pushed up, ink out, broad arms crossed over his chest.

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