“You’re the most mercurial man I’ve ever met. I swear you have a different mood for every hour in the day. How do you deal with the whiplash?”
“I’m not myself.” He kills the engine and lifts his gaze to the estate. “Everything feels backwards, like my cell is my true home, and in there is the prison.”
“You can’t sleep outside in the winter.”
He stares at the dash, his eyes losing focus. Then he blinks. “I’m not adjusting well.”
It can take years. Some inmates never acclimate outside of their cells. But Lorne was only down for eight years, and he has the support of a family that loves him.
I clear my throat. “If there’s anything I can do…”
The one thing I’m good at is the last thing I want him to take. It was easy to offer my body when I first met him. The time I spent chained to a wall shoved me into a torpid state of detachment.
But my insides are a jumbled mess now, churning between hatred and desire. I can’t have sex when my emotions are so close to the surface. It would break me.
He sets his gaze on me. “Your tea helps.”
I sigh my relief. “Then I’ll make tea.”
Every night, Raina brings me a thermos of tea. It becomes our ritual—her, me, sleeping bag, open field, vast sky, and quiet conversation. Then I send her inside to sleep in safety. Every day, she prepares our meals, cleans the house, and spends the rest of her time with me. I might not be adapting to life outside of prison, but day by day, I’m adjusting to her.
When I’m with her, I feel alive. Needed. Motivated. A little less angry, and a whole lot hungry.
Like now.
In an unused pasture with the sun beating down and humidity clinging to our clothes, I lean over her back and inhale the sweet scent of her hair.
Most of her bruises have faded. The surface cuts are healing without infection. The worst of John’s destruction dwells too deep inside her for me to examine.
I’m all too familiar with the need to bury demons. I have plenty of my own.
She’s safe here, under the watch of cameras and surrounded by me and the others. But right now, I have her all to myself.
There’s nothing around for miles, except her tiny denim shorts, full tits, the curve of her backside against my groin, and the gun in her hand. It’s a goddamn religious experience.
“Back off.” She trains the shotgun on a row of cans and kicks back with her boot, nailing me in the shin. “I mean it.”
“You’re holding it like a T-Rex.” I grip the butt of the gun and tuck it tightly against her. “Your stubby arms have these things called shoulders. Use them.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my arms. The problem is your stubby dick rubbing against my ass.”
It’s been four days since our visit to Cora’s shop. Four days of spitting, snarling, kicking, and fighting. Sometimes I rile her just to hear the creative ways her poisoned food will rot off my dick.
It feels a lot like foreplay, because let’s face it. She loves to talk about my cock.
“You’d focus better,” I say, “if you weren’t thinking about it all the time.”
“Why don’t you stand in front of me, and I’ll think about it while I shoot it off.”
I nudge up my hat and grin at her.
Her eyes hone in on my cheek, and she laughs through a groan. “That dimple, though!”
It’s her weakness. My discovery of that has given me every reason to smile.
“Loosen your arms.” I glide a hand along her elbow, adjusting, caressing. “Just like that.”
Her breath shivers, and goosebumps pebble her skin. “Lorne.”
“Raina.”
“You’re distracting me.” She fidgets with her ear plugs.
“See that coffee can? It’s John Holsten’s hollow heart.” I drift into her space, touching her with my hips, my chest, my arms. Then my lips, just barely against her neck. “When you shoot him, you’ll have distractions all around you, and he’ll be on the move. Shoot him in the chest.”
Her jaw locks. Her finger slides to the trigger, and determination tapers her eyes.
I pop in my own ear plugs and maintain my hovering proximity.
She inhales and squeezes on her exhale, just like I taught her.
Gunfire booms through me, and the shot goes wide, missing the can by a foot.
“Fucking fuck!” She flicks on the safety, sets the gun down, and yanks out her ear protection. “I’m only hitting like one in ten!”
“That’s why we’re practicing.”
“I’m terrible.”
“You’ll learn.”
“Not while you’re all up on me.” She storms off toward a cluster of trees, where Captain waits in the shade.
We’ve been out here for hours. She’s tired. Frustrated. I should let her cool off, but my boots are already chasing. My pulse quickens. My hands flex, the instinct to hunt firing beneath my skin.