Page 76 of Deacon

Lights glimmer far off, where the road curves up.

“I think I see you,” I say.

“I’m almost there,” he says. “But don’t hang up.”

Warmth steals into my veins. I stay on the line, not speaking, until he pulls over in front of me and opens the door. I take his outstretched hand, and he draws me into the truck without a word. His foot hits the gas, he backs up, and then we’re heading back to Ryder Ranch.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

He’s just a shadow. I can’t see his face, but I can tell he’s upset.

“It’s okay.”

“I’ve been in enough homes where men beat their women to know better,” he says, voice like steel. “I should have realized they’d take it out on you.”

“They didn’t,” I say. “Bittern got me out.”

He clears his throat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on my thigh. “I’ll take him off my shit list.”

I look down at his hands, bloody but not cut up as badly as Aiden’s. His knuckles are smashed in, the messy ink scraped back from the center finger. My stomach turns. The blood is caked, dried dark on his skin.

“You’re hurt,” I whisper.

He flexes his hand, tearing it open enough that a drop of red trickles out. “Not much,” he says. “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about getting you home safe.”

Home—he says the word like it’s my home too, like he can somehow take his big, empty house and make it the place my heart aches for. I didn’t believe it, but here in the truck, with his warm presence beside me, I wonder if it’s possible. Someday, somehow.

I don’t know if that’s what I want.

He grips my thigh so hard, his knuckles start bleeding in earnest. I watch the crimson drip down my skin, so raw inside, but I don’t have it in me to move.

We’re parked in his driveway when he notices he’s dripping blood onto my bare thigh. He pulls his hand back and gets out of the truck. I see his body move in the dark, circling to open my door. He picks me up, lifting me.

My stomach swoops. My numb toes curl.

He carries me up the stairs and into the warm house. A wave of relief washes over me. A low whine comes from the living room as he sets me down. It’s Stu—I’d named him something simple. He’s loose, and he comes toddling down the hall and sniffs my foot.

“Sweetheart.”

I turn. Deacon has his coat off, bloodstains stark on his shirt. He’s got a bruise on his cheekbone, a trace of red on his chin, but otherwise, he’s unharmed. The beating his knuckles took is a testament to who won that fight.

I underestimated him. He went up against Aiden and Ryland and came out on top.

“I’m going to run a bath,” he says. “Did anybody put their hands on you?”

I shake my head, wrapping my arms around myself. Something is shifting in me now that he’s in the light. His broad shoulders tower over me. His jaw is set so hard that it’s square. I can’t tell if his nose is broken like usual, or if it has a new break in it.

It probably doesn’t matter to him at this point.

Coils of heat spark in my limbs. They reach the cold ends of my fingers and toes. I’ve lived for years under Aiden’s tyrannical thumb. He was always the biggest, baddest man in the room with the meanest punch—until now.

Until Deacon walked in.

Maybe I misjudged Deacon. Maybe I misjudged myself. I don’t know—I’m too messed up inside right now to know. Tonight, I hurt, and there’s one man who can take that away.

“Deacon,” I whisper.

He turns his head, inches from me. His body gives off so much heat and, God, I’m chilled to the bone. I reach up and grip his shirt. His mouth parts as he bends, and his nose brushes mine.

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