4. Blackheart

4

Blackheart

I sit on the edge of my bed while I watch my little fox get dressed in one of my shirts that’s four sizes too big. I’d give her a pair of pants to go with, but they won’t fit. She can just wear this as a dress. Isn’t that what women love doing anyways?

I haven’t taken my eye off Montana since I unchained her in my shed. She needed fluids badly, so I set her up the drip so she wouldn’t die. I thought she would sleep, but she was out for four hours. I’d planned to stay and wait for her to wake up, but I couldn’t bear it.

Due to our little fight in the woods, I got her dirtied up again, and I knew she needed a bath. I was seconds away from giving her one while she was unconscious, but deep down, I knew it was a bad idea. Not the washing her part, but the thoughts I would’ve had while I did it. She was in bad shape on that bed, but it didn’t matter. I haven’t been with a woman in a long long time, and seeing her sprawled out and ready for the taking was nearly too much for me to handle. There’s a lot I’ve done in my life, but I’ve never fucked a woman in her sleep, so I went in my house to wash off and calm down before I had to see her again.

After her bath, I changed the bandage on her head again, giving her one a little smaller than before. The wound isn’t as bad as I thought now that it’s clean, but it still doesn’t need to be exposed right now.

She sees me watching her, but she avoids my gaze. She’s a spitfire, but I can tell she’s scared of me. She should be. I want to do terrible things to her.

Looking in my mirror, she tries to style her wavy hair, giving it a little fluff, and I could almost laugh at the gesture. It’s like she’s forgotten where the hell she is. She has no reason to try and beautify herself for me. And there’s no need. She’s a natural beauty. Beautiful skin, bright eyes, glossy hair, and a nice figure. Despite her condition, I can tell she took care of herself before her imprisonment. Her teeth look healthy and white, and her bare nails are decently manicured even after running through the woods. I wonder how she got herself into the trouble she’s in. Something tells me she was up to no good, and that concerns me.

Her big doe hazel eyes meet mine in the mirror, and she scowls with all her might, trying to intimidate me like I do her. The only thing in this world that intimidates me is the sunlight. The brutal reminder that I’m awake and forced to live another day.

I stand up behind her with my gun in hand, not wanting her to get any ideas. “Come on.”

She whips around, and her damp hair clings to the collar and shoulders of my shirt while she eyes me down. “Where?”

“Downstairs. Walk ahead of me.”

Her nose crinkles up and she crosses her arms, highlighting what she’s hiding underneath my clothes. “Why? So you can stare at my ass?”

I put my hand on her back, giving her a gentle push forward. “No. But I will now that you’ve put the idea in my head.”

She stumbles under my touch, being unnecessarily dramatic. “I swear, if you try to touch me—”

“If I try to touch you, there’s not a damn thing you’ll be able to do to stop me. So quit pissing me off or I’ll take what I fucking want. Get your ass downstairs. Now.”

I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve never threatened a woman like that in my life. But Montana likes to push my buttons, and if she’s not cautious, she will push me right over the edge. Whether she knows it or not, I’m helping her. I’m ordering her to fall in line, or she will unleash the beast within me clawing to get out.

Not looking back and keeping her mouth shut, she walks forward slowly and quietly like a scared animal. Like her hunter, I stay on her heels just as stealthily, keeping watch over her every move.

My prey has a little muscle on her, but she’s weak. So weak that she barely made it away from the cage she was being held in. Her father guessed that she’d been gone for two hours, but by the time I got to her, it would’ve been a little over three.

But when she got out of the bath, I asked her how long she was out there, and she said five. She should’ve gotten way farther in five hours. Whatever her father was doing to her, it couldn’t have been good.

We get to the bottom of the stairs, and she waits in the entryway for me. I like this quiet and obedient side of Montana. It’s my favorite version of her so far. I wonder what else I could get her to do. She did promise to do whatever I asked if I helped her.

I step closer to her until I’m a foot away. Her shoulders shake a little, but she doesn’t move. I lean down until my lips are right beside her ear. I want to touch her hair again, but I don’t have enough restraint to allow myself to. Turning my face toward hers, I keep my voice low. “Turn left and go in the kitchen. Get a water out of the fridge for yourself, and grab me a beer.”

Her sassy side resurfaces while she shakes her head, scoffing, but she does what she’s told. I give her a little breathing room and follow behind her slowly.

When I arrive in the kitchen, she’s got my beer on a coaster on the table. Good manners. She grabs her water and tries to walk confidently to an empty seat, but I don’t miss the slight limp she has while she moves through my kitchen. Part of me wants to let her suffer. See how far I can push her until she breaks.

But I can’t help it. I’ve always had a soft spot for helpless injured beings. It was what my father hated most about me. I remember saving a little bunny once. It got caught in the barbed wire fence behind my backyard. I took it to the garage and doctored it. As soon as I brought it inside, my father looked me in the eyes, ripped it from my hands, and cut it in half with a butcher knife. I didn’t speak to him for a month afterward.

Montana is an injured little fox. Caught in a trap and needing some care.

After my father killed my bunny, I still helped injured animals. But instead of bringing them back to life, I shot them dead.

Looking at my little fox, I don’t know what would serve her better. I wanted to kill her for the money, but now I want to do it to protect her. If she ends up back in her father’s hands, who knows what’ll happen to her? I can make it quick and painless.

Her weary eyes look up at me, and I see my bunny all over again. Letting my nurturing side win, I head to my medicine cabinet and grab some ibuprofen for her, handing her three caplets. “Take these.”

I wait for her to mouth off, but she doesn’t. Desperate, she swallows the medicine quickly, and my dick twitches watching her tiny throat bob. I loved wrapping my hand around it. So soft, delicate, and crushable.

I take a seat across from her, opening my Sam Adams and sipping it slowly. “You hungry?”

The little fawn rolls her eyes and grits her teeth. “What the fuck do you think?”

“I think you need to be bent over my knee and get your ass beat a little more, little girl.”

Her nostrils flare, and she pushes back her chair. “I’m not a little girl.”

I reach under the table, pulling her chair legs back to the position they were. “You are to me.”

An emotion flashes across her face quickly, so quickly that I’m unable to read it. She takes a sip of water and wipes a spilled drop off her plush pout with the collar of my shirt. “How old are you, Mr. Blackheart?”

“Not mister. Just Blackheart. And I’m thirty-eight.”

Her eyes widen, and she gulps. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

She smirks. “You look older. Like forty-five. Or fifty.”

Goddamn. I knew I’d been looking a little rough lately but I didn’t know it was that bad. I think it’s time I finally get rid of this beard. It’ll be fall soon, but it’s too hot for it right now. Especially heading to Arizona in the morning. “Well that hurts.”

She raises a brow, chuckling. “Who knew you had feelings?”

I finish off my beer. “I don’t. You got allergies?”

Her smile falls. “No.”

“Good. Get up and make us some sandwiches. Bread’s in the breadbox. Cold cuts and everything else are in the fridge. Serve me some of the pasta salad in there too.”

She bats her long lashes and smoothes her hair back. “Did your mother raise you to be such a fucking dick?”

Shit, she is a bold one. I don’t know how I feel about that. I’m torn between wanting to clap her on the back for standing up to me or smack her for her tone. I decide to do neither. “No. It was my father. My mother’s dead. My father killed her. ”

She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “Mine’s dead too. Also killed by my father. Looks like we have something in common.” She turns away and starts getting things out to make sandwiches.

“We don’t have anything in common. And the last thing I want to do is be your fucking friend, so don’t try and be mine.”

At that, she freezes and mutters to herself before resuming her chore. I keep an even closer watch on her while she makes my meal, slightly fearful that she may try and poison me.

I wait by for a few minutes, and she hobbles back over to me, placing my food on my placemat.

She did a good job. This sandwich is certainly prettier than anything I’ve ever made. I pick it up, getting ready to dig in when she huffs. “Don’t you have anything you want to say to me?”

I look at the angry little lady in front of me, gripping the plate of food she made for herself. I know exactly what she wants. And she deserves a thank you. But she won’t be getting one. Smiling at her, I shake my head. “No.”

I’ve almost got the sandwich to my lips when she spits on it.

This little bitch spat on my sandwich. When I look up into her eyes, they’re glowing. The sun shines through my windows, and she looks angelic almost, with a white bandage on her head wearing my white shirt.

She’s so proud of herself. Thinking that this is supposed to turn me off. As if I haven’t shared spit with a woman before. I’ll show her that she doesn’t know who the fuck she’s messing with.

Holding my sandwich in my left hand, I bring it to my lips slowly and run my tongue over the spot that she soiled. Her look of victory falls from her face like shattered glass, and I lick over the spot a few more times, making out with the fresh bread.

She curls her lip upward and sits across from me. “You’re disgusting.”

Instead of knocking her plate off the table like I want to, I preoccupy myself with my own meal, knowing deep down that she’s only being so difficult because I’m driving her to be that way.

We eat together in silence, and I’m reminded that I can’t remember the last time I shared a meal with a woman. I’ve certainly never had a woman in this house. It’s been just me and my animals for the past twelve years. Twelve years since I survived my suicide attempt. Twelve years since I’ve been inside a woman.

Montana shuffles in her seat, and I get a whiff of my lavender soap she used. It smells good on her .

I finish my food before her, and when I’m done, I watch her eat. She won’t look at me. It’s like she hates the sight of me. It makes me more self-conscious than I care to admit.

Once she finishes her food, I grab our plates and get out more water from the fridge. I have no desire to take care of her, but I don’t want to overexert her when we’re about to go out.

Passing her a bottle of water, I lean on the counter across from her. “Finish this up, and then we’ll go to town.”

Panic washes over her face. “Town? But my father—”

“Won’t find you. I’m taking you about an hour away from here. Opposite from the direction you came from. It’s a small town. No one will know you. Especially not since you’ve dropped a few pounds and changed your hair. And everyone knows me where we’re going. No one messes with me.”

She sighs and leans back in her chair. “You haven’t met my father, have you?”

“No. I have not.”

“I can tell.” She frowns, looking away. “My father isn’t scared of anything. And if he finds out, when he finds out you betrayed him, he’ll tie you down and cut out your guts while you’re still alive. ”

“Won’t happen.” I won’t let him close enough for that to happen. I can handle myself. I’ve taken care of myself for my entire life.

She rolls her bright eyes again. “Suit your self, cowboy. But when I get you your money, you promise to take me wherever I want to go.”

I step up beside her chair. “If you get me my money, we’ll see.” I glance down at her swollen ankles. “Can you walk?”

She grimaces. “Not very well at the moment.”

“You’ll sit in the back of my truck, and I’ll drive slow. You can elevate your feet until we get where we’re going. What size shoe do you wear?”

“Nine.”

I should’ve gotten rid of Margaret’s shoes ages ago. And I did get rid of most of them.

But she had this pair of sandals she wore on our one year anniversary. It was the only time she ever wore them. And she was a size nine.

“Come with me down the hall, and I’ll get you some shoes.”

She stands up carefully and walks in front of me to the side. She needs better shoes than these sandals, but at least she won’t go into town barefoot. The only other shoes of my late girlfriend that I have are a few pairs of high heels she never wore. I remember the day I got her shoes from her house. It was rainy and dreary, and I’d just got through burying her after I found her mangled body in her kitchen. Later that day, her house was up in flames. My father was the man who killed her.

We make it to the spare room at the end of the hall, and I open the door slowly, ushering Montana in ahead of me. She lets out a sigh of relief when her feet touch the bare carpet, and I step in beside her going up to the small pile of shoes against the wall.

I find the sandals in no time. They’re the only ones I keep in a box. I stand up and hand them to Montana, and she looks at me warily. “You’re married?”

I don’t wear a ring on my left hand, but maybe she thinks the one on my right means something. “No.”

She raises a brow, crossing her arms that make her dark nipples stand out through the thin shirt she wears. “So you have a girlfriend.”

I glance at Margaret’s shoes, and her lifeless face flashes in my mind. “No.”

She holds the sandals in her hands cautiously as if they’re treasures. “Sister? Mother?”

“Not anymore. These don’t belong to them.”

Her jaw tenses. “Who do they belong to? Your feet are too big for them. ”

I push down any ounce of emotion that could rise to the surface. “They belong to me.” I nod my head to the bathroom on the opposite wall. “Potty. Put your shoes on, and then we’re heading out.”

She laughs at my choice of words which breaks me from my depressed spell and heads toward the open door. As soon as she steps in, she tries to close it behind her, but I hold my hand up, causing her to stumble.

Her nervous eyes meet mine. “I don’t even get to piss in private?”

I step in when she backs up toward the toilet. “Not until I can trust you.”

She sets the shoes down on the ground. “And when will that be?”

“Never.”

She stands there, eyeing me down, and I shut the door behind me even though it’s just us in here so she doesn’t try and run past me. “It’s not like I haven’t seen it all this morning, Montana. Hurry up. We’ve got a lot to do today.” As soon as we get back from our little errand, I have some work to do on the ranch, and she’s going to help me whether she wants to or not.

Lifting her shirt up, she sits on the toilet, and we don’t break eye contact while she pees. When she grabs toilet paper, I look past her, trying to give her a little privacy while keeping her in my line of sight. She handles her business quickly, and once her hands are clean, she slides into Margaret’s overpriced leather sandals and comes up to me. “Let’s get going.”