"I was so mad when you got this," I say with my eyes on the tattoo that takes up the whole of the outer side of his right forearm that says HERS in the same thick, black font that graces the Forsaken logo.
"That's because you're fucking crazy," he says. One hand works my clit, and the other pulls and twists one of my nipples. A chill runs up my spine that leaves me covered in gooseflesh.
"You make me fucking crazy." The words come out more as a moan than anything else.
"No, you came to me that way," he says dismissively. We continue like that for a few more minutes, with me admiring the tattoo he got for me and him prepping me for his dick. He found out the hard way that with his size I have to be well prepared first. Not that I'm complaining about the extra attention.
"I want one," I say, gliding my wet pussy over his hard cock. We shift and maneuver so he's at my entrance now. His quizzical expression tells me he doesn't understand. "I want one that matches. But only after my name is changed and I've adopted Ryan."
"Fuck yes." He slides inside me, hard and fast. And there's not another word between us aside from the occasional I-love-you as we make love in that cold, damp field that's soon to be our home.
CHAPTER 18
January 1999
My eyes are fixed on the red barn that sits in the middle of our property as Jim stomps his way down there, followed by a bunch of dogs. My man's shoulders heave in anger as he trudges through the mud, lifting his feet high in the air to keep from getting stuck in the soggy landscape. One of the puppies, Spartacus, keeps jumping up as they go, desperate for his dad's attention. But Jim ignores him, which is rare. He never fails to give Spartacus attention. I sigh in frustration and mentally kick myself for not dealing with the boys' mess before he got home.
Jim's not been the same since Sylvia passed just a few months ago. I haven't been the same either, though, and that's part of the problem. We've always been such a strong couple, able to withstand anything. Except this is different. Sylvia Stone did more for me and my boy than any other woman in my life. She took me under her wing and forced me to accept her as family. Not that it was all that hard to sway me, in retrospect.
"Dad's pissed." Ryan comes up and stands beside me. It's been just under two years since I met this kid, but he's already changed so much. Verging on eleven now, Ryan's just starting to go through puberty. I thought he was a handful as a nine-year-old, but I was wrong.
"Yeah, I wonder why," I say, nudging him with my shoulder. He just smirks. The little punk.
"Where's your brother?" I ask.
Ryan shrugs his shoulders and folds his arms over his chest, refusing to answer. His mood's suddenly turned sour, as it fucking should. All Jim asked was that the boys stop fucking around in the living room, and they couldn't even do that. If I'd taken the Christmas tree down yesterday, like Jim "suggested," the boys wouldn't have knocked into it, and Sylvia's favorite ornament wouldn't have fallen to the floor and shattered in a hundred different pieces.
"Go find your brother," I say in a hard tone, but he doesn't move. Turning toward him, I do my best to check my temper.
"Ryan James, find your fucking brother and apologize."
Still, he doesn't move. And because I know my kid well enough to know that yelling at him doesn't do any good, I mimic his dad and stomp to the Christmas tree. I locate Sylvia's other favorite ornament and hold it by the string. Being so reckless with it makes me nervous, but Ryan needs to listen. When he turns around, his eyes are wide, and his lip trembles for a moment before he checks his nerves.
"You want me to break this one?" I ask.
Ryan shakes his head. "Stop!"
"You pushed your brother into the tree, and the ornament your grandma left him got broken. Seems to me that either you check your shit and apologize, or I break this one to even the fucking score."
"You wouldn't," Ryan says.
We stay in a standoff, me and this kid that's almost my height, arguing over shit we shouldn't be.
"How many years did you get with your grandma? Huh? How many?" He's silent. We've had this discussion before. My boys--all my boys--are grieving, each in their own ways, and none of them knows how to manage the pain. It's not like I have any better idea how to get out of bed in the morning, but somebody needs to keep this family together.
"Stop crying," Ryan says in something between a plea and a demand. I huff and try to will away the tears.
"Your brother never had a grandma until we came here. Sylvia left him that ornament because it represented this town--her home. She wanted Ian to know that this is his home, too. And now it's broken, and I can't put it back together. The absolute least you can do is say you're sorry to him."