Page 82 of Deacon

She closes her eyes. The mounting emotions of just a few moments ago are gone. Gently, I stretch my throbbing leg out and lean back. She’s in my arms for tonight. Tomorrow, I don’t know what that brings, but I know I’ll keep trying until, one day, she doesn’t want to leave.

At first, I thought I was the one dragging my past in like dirt on my boots, but it’s Freya I needed to be worried about. She has pain clinging to her, seeping from her skin.

And yet, in her pain, I see a path forward.

I’m a rough man. I’ve done my time in a holding cell and thrown enough fists to last most men a lifetime, but I’ve never raised my voice like that in my home. I’ve never put holes into the walls or broken dishes out of rage.

It took me a while, but I have the dark parts of me bridled.

I know what I want. She knows what she doesn’t. Right here is the place where we can meet in the middle.

“Look,” she whispers.

I raise my head to where she’s pointing through the windows. The clouds have parted, and the Milky Way is a glimmering river across the sky. Sometimes, I forget to look up. I’ve lived on this ranch so long, but there’s nothing like viewing it with her fresh eyes.

“You ever seen anything like that before coming here, sweetheart?” I ask.

She nestles down, her head on my stomach. Her eyes are so heavy, they’re barely open.

“No,” she whispers. “I’ve never had anything like this.”

I stroke her hair until her breathing deepens. Her body slumps. I pull the sheet over her and rest my hand on the swell of her hip. There’s a lot more I need to say to her. I have a feeling she’s got a lot more to talk through with me. That can wait.

Every time she comes here, I pry her open a bit wider, and out spills pain with a little starlight to keep it company. I don’t mind; I think she just wants somebody to see it too, maybe to tell her it’s alright to feel hurt.

I do, I see her clearly, and because of that, I can’t let her go.

CHAPTER TWENTY

FREYA

The next morning, I’m surprised to find I don’t regret being so honest with him. I’m shaken by everything, but when I get up and go to the bathroom, there’s peace in my chest.

That’s new for me.

I’m reaching for the faucet when I stop short, a little prickle going over my body. Turning slowly, my eyes fall on the chair in the corner. Sitting on it is a pale pink box with a black ribbon tied around it.

Right away, I know it’s for me. I pick it up and set it on the sink. My fingers untie the ribbon and set it aside. Butterflies erupt in my stomach. I slide open the lid, and my breath catches.

It’s a bra and panties set.

Blue silk, clearly expensive. My fingertips skim over the fabric, cool and soft. The edges have white lace, so fine, I have to lean in to inspect it. He spent money on this, a lot. No doubt, he wants to see me in it.

My mouth is dry as I turn on the shower. There’s a little bag of toiletries, rose scented, including some lotion and a razor, in the box. I lock the bathroom door and take a shower without worrying about running the hot water tank out. I just scrub and shave and wash myhair. When I get out, I’m so clean, I tingle as I work the tangles from my wet curls.

I’m not brave enough to go downstairs in these clothes, but I want to try them. So I do, pulling the silky underwear over my body. Turning in a slow circle to see how perfectly the bra and panties fit me. I’ve never looked so feminine, so soft, before. My face is practically glowing.

Up until this moment, I’ve never felt beautiful. I can be pretty, but I’m not the kind of woman who makes men stop and turn around.

I get it now. I see why Deacon stares at me.

I can’t stop staring either.

Pretty for the sake of being pretty has only existed in the context of natural things for me. Flowers, birds, sunsets. I’ve never thought about it for myself. It’s frivolous and exciting.

Hands unsteady, I take off the bra, and the panties and put them back in the box. I tie the bow shut and lay it on the chair. There’s no world where I’ll put that on in front of him without being prompted. I keep my head down as I put on my old bra and panties beneath the flannel shirt hanging behind the door and head downstairs.

The kitchen is empty. I slip inside and get a mug down. The coffee is dripping when I hear keys jiggle at the side door. I freeze, turning around just as a woman with cropped brown hair walks into the kitchen.

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