Page 156 of Deacon

His chest heaves. The room is gone. We’re standing in the kitchen, and I’m telling him what Braxton Whitaker did, that he fucked, but didn’t force, me, but Aiden is livid all the same. The bottom drops out of my stomach as pieces click into place.

“You did it,” I whisper. “You’re the reason Braxton never came back. What did you do to him?”

His pale eyes flick up then go back to his finger. He’s watching it drag down my jawline, to my chin. Now I understand, like never before, the thin, thin line between hatred and desire.

“Aiden.” The word is so quiet.

His finger and thumb are on my chin. My chest heaves, straining through the thin fabric. The corner of his lips curls.

“I snorted, took pills,” he says hoarsely. “But there’s some shit I never touched. There’s shit you can’t come back from.”

“Did you abuse it too?” I whisper. “Just because you couldn’t have it?”

His fingers leave my chin and wrap around my neck. They don’t feel too different from Deacon’s hands—until they start tightening.

“Don’t,” I gasp. “Please, just leave me with this one thing you didn’t do.”

His jaw flexes. Dots appear in my vision.

“Please, Aiden,” I manage. “I’m begging you. I’m pregnant.”

All the fleeting emotion in his eyes vanishes. There’s nothing left but rage. Decades of it, boiling over. He lets me go, shoving my head back.

“You’d better pray Deacon Ryder can really fucking fight,” he spits.

He turns, boots ringing on the floor, and leaves. The door slams so hard, the room shakes. My hands are numb as I slide to the floor and drop my head to my knees. How could I have misunderstood Aiden so deeply for so long? The world has turned upside down.

The only thing I know for certain is that Deacon Ryder can fight like hell.

And not even Aiden is a match for him.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

DEACON

I go to the blacksmith shop. It’s icy cold, and all the metalworking materials I left after making her chastity belt are still laid out. The smooth-topped fence stake still sits on the anvil from the night I fucked her with it.

My mind goes back to when she told me Aiden smashed her collection. I’ve heard a lot of sad stories in my life, but nothing that tugged at my heart like that, especially in the context of everything else she’s told me, how scared she’s been her entire life.

I pick up the stake. It brings back the memory of that night—of Freya draped over the anvil, firelight glimmering over her beautiful body.

My fingers tighten.

Beneath all the good she brings out in me, I’m still the same animal who drove metal into Henderson’s skull, again and again, long after he was dead. All those years of torment poured out of me. I should have hit him the minute Phil died, but I let it build until there was so much bad blood, nothing but death could fix it.

That was when I realized there was something different about me.

Something dark.

It lifts its head, sniffing the air. I bring the stake to my face and inhale. Just metal, nothing else. Head blank, I run my tongue along it, and that’s when I taste a faint sweetness.

My eyes snap open.

It’s time to pin that motherfucker to a wall like one of the bugs he crushed to dust from her collection.

It’s almost dark when I step out of the blacksmith shop. Jack went out and rode the property. He came back, certain that with the number of trucks on the McClaine land, they took Freya to the farmhouse at the top of the hill. He went by the Hatfield property to find their house locked up and the lights off. The McClaine house is a fortress with the best vantage point.

Now, he sits on the porch, hat low and cigarette tip glinting. Stu rolls lazily at his feet. Ryder Ranch is quiet even though everyone is on high alert. The wranglers are stationed along the border. Andy has his best at the gates.

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