Page 2 of Sweet Beloved

“Hey, sweetheart,” I say.

She turns, giving me a look up and down. I’m all scuffed up, dusty from riding hard-packed trails. She’s prettier than all get out, wearing one of her summer dresses, feet bare.

I come up behind her, putting my hand on her hip. Through the thin cotton, I can make out the faint outline of her chastity belt beneath my palm. The strap that covers her pussy isn’t on—we don’t have as much time for it these days—but she still wears the ornamental part daily.

There it is—the spark that never leaves.

God, I love this woman.

She sighs when I brush her hair aside and kiss her neck. “You just visiting the horses?” I ask.

“Came to bring Silver Phantom some apple scraps.”

“She looks appreciative.”

Freya wriggles, turning to face me. “How was the branding this morning?”

“Same old.”

I brush a bit of hair from her face. The color is still rich bark brown like the trees deep in the forest, the prettiest shade. She has a few gray hairs coiled up in the depths of her curls. I love them. They make her hair glitter when she stands in the sunlight.

She takes my hand, and we make our way toward the house. It’s peaceful on the porch. As soon as we step into the hall, a barrage of noise hits us. Everything smells like dumplings and roasted chicken. My stomach twists in hunger as I kick the dirt off my boots. Faintly, I catch a little rattle coming from the kitchen. Eyes widening, Freya breaks away from me and bolts around the corner.

“You took the lid off!”

Oh no—goddamn kids know better than to do that. I come around the corner and find Remington standing by the sink, looking guilty as a dog caught chewing furniture.

“Sorry. I didn’t know it was dumplings,” he says, shooting me a glance.

I sink down at the head of the table. This is called fuck around and find out. I’m not intervening. Freya presses her lips together, fitting the lid back on the pot. She turns around and holds out her arm. Right away, Remington melts into her side and lets her hug him.

“It’s fine. They might be a little soggy, but it’s okay,” she says.

Sweet Freya. She never wants her children to be afraid. There isn’t a mean bone in her body when it comes to them. Me, she’ll buck and sass all day, but she has never been anything but kind to the kids. I’m the long arm of the law. She just gets to love them.

That’s her right after everything she went through.

“Sorry,” Remington says, staring at the ground.

She lets him go, pushing him away from the stove. “Make it up to me by getting everyone cleaned up and down to the table in fifteen minutes, okay?”

He nods, even though I know it’ll be Slate rounding everybody up, and leaves. Freya sighs, taking down plates and setting them on the table. Since it’s just us, I take advantage of the moment and grab her ass through her skirt. She yelps, shooting me a look that says she’s not even half mad.

“I thought you’d be tired after today,” she says.

“Tired of working,” I say. “Not tired of working out that pussy.”

Her brows shoot up, her eyes swiping over the kitchen to make sure we’re alone.

“I’m still sore from last night,” she whispers.

I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her onto my knee. She smells so fucking good—vanilla, comfort, home. I nuzzle the side of her neck, inhaling.

“I think you can manage,” I say.

Boots sound on the stairs. She jumps out of my arms and starts fussing with the stove. Right on cue, my children file into the kitchen, chattering and tousling with each other, and take their places at the table.

Slate sits at my left, Gage next to him. Across from them are Remington and Red.

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