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I shake my head. “Nothing.”
I try to arrange my face to be casual. I know he’s pissed from Gerard’s comment. I just pray he doesn’t take it out on me.
To my relief, he’s quiet as he strips for bed and takes his shower. I wash up in the sink, worried I’ll set him off if I ask him to leave the shower on for me.
He hates when I wear flannel to bed, he mocks me for giving up when I’m only twenty-one. So I always wear a cream slip even though he rarely fucks me anymore. I have no idea why this matters except I think he gets off on controlling me in meaningless ways.
He comes out of the bathroom in his sweatpants, drying his forearms on a towel.
“What did you think of Sovereign?” he asks.
I freeze. Did he see something?
“He seemed fine,” I say quickly.
His ash blond brow arcs. “Fine? What does that mean?”
My hands twist under the quilt. “I don’t know, it was hard to tell. He didn’t speak very much.”
He snorts and tosses the towel aside. I watch it land in a heap by the basket, but I don’t say a word. My eyes snap back to him and his gaze narrows. Unease curls through my stomach. He’s never hit me before, but I’ve always been afraid of it. He’s a big man and he’s strong from working the ranch.
“Come here,” he says.
My heart thumps.
“Get your ass over here, Keira,” he says, his voice hard.
Mouth dry, I crawl on my hands and knees to the edge of the bed and sit back. I can’t keep the fear from my face and he scowls as he looks down at it.
“Jesus, I just want to fuck my wife,” he growls. “You don’t have to look like you’re going to cry.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just tired. That’s it.”
He knows that’s not true, but he doesn’t care. He takes me by the wrist and pushes me down on his side of the bed. For a second, I think he’s going to fuck me missionary, but then he flips me onto my stomach. He rarely looks at my face while we have sex.
I used to wonder why that was because I’m pretty enough, but then I realized that I might be attractive in real life, I don’t look like the girls on his phone. I’m not airbrushed and surrounded by perfect lighting. My body is curvy, I have dimples and stretch marks. And freckles, I have a lot of freckles.
None of the women he looks at look like me. Realistically, none of the woman he looks at look like that either. Not that it matters to him.
He enters me and the pain makes my back arch. His breath heats the back of my neck as he works his hips.
“You’re dry as fuck,” he grumbles.
I squirm, trying to spread my legs further. “Can I have lube? Please?”
He doesn’t like it when I ask for it. It pisses him off, like I’m rubbing it in that he doesn’t get me wet. He pulls out roughly and spits in his hand. It’s enough I don’t see stars when he pushes himself back in, but it dries up quickly. Right away, a friction burn starts and I have to grit my teeth to keep quiet.
I stare at the painted mare on the bedside table.
She’s beautiful, lithe like a thoroughbred. When she runs, she steps high. Her bridle glitters like snow under moonlight.
I lie still, even after Clint finishes. He starts snoring a moment later and I shift to my side, still watching the painted mare. She’s an angel watching over me. At least that’s what I like to hope.
The next day, my husband goes with a dozen other men to Sovereign Mountain. They’re rounding up a few thousand cattle and purchasing them before auction. That’s what he tells me before he puts his hat on and drives off.
The morning goes like any other morning on Garrison Ranch. I prepare breakfast, serve it, and clean everything up. I have a few spare moments so I steal upstairs and tidy our bedroom. The painted mare is tucked in my bedside table, wrapped in a handkerchief so there’s no chance Clint sees it. He thinks it’s childish, so during the day I put it away. At night, I ignore his comments because I can’t sleep without it watching me.
I expect Clint back around four so I head down to the kitchen and start making dinner at two. The kitchen is hot and my headis stuffy. I didn’t sleep well last night after what happened in the kitchen.
