Broken Vow (Brutal Birthright, #5)

by Sophie Lark

But there’s a stubbornness in me, a contentiousness, that wants to see that horse rebel. I hate to see it broken.

Celia looks over at me, her blue eyes searching my face. “I can see why Raylan likes you,” she says. “You’re honest. That’s important to him. He can’t stand being lied to.” “We don’t . . . we’re not . . . ” I trail off. I want to tell Celia that we’re not dating, but I can’t exactly say there’s nothing between us. “I know, I know,” she says, stirring the contents of the frypan. “He told me you weren’t together. But he’s never brought a girl home before.”

“Why did he enlist? He seems to love it here . . . ” Celia sighs. “I think . . . I think he felt he had to leave. For a while, at least.” I frown, not understanding. “Has Raylan told you anything about his father?” Celia asks me. “No.” I shake my head. “Nothing at all.”

‘I can’t drink, I’m only sixteen.’ And he smiled, showing the most white and perfect teeth I’d ever seen. I should have realized then what a warning that smile was, but when you’re a teenager, you don’t realize you’re just a child. You don’t realize how different adults are from you. You think you’re one of them, or close to it. You don’t know that in innocence and vulnerability, you’re like a kitten padding around next to a tiger.”

“So when I left work the next night and Ellis was waiting for me . . . I finally felt special. And chosen. As if fate had noticed me at last.

“You were a child. And you were desperate. You didn’t sell yourself--that implies you made a choice.”

My sympathy for Raylan is intense. For Celia as well. That’s another thing that’s hard to express. How can I tell her how much I appreciate her sharing this with me? How can I tell her that my heart hurts for her younger self? That I admire that she did manage to leave and that she kept Raylan safe? All the words that come to mind seem pithy and weak.

“You look stunning,” Raylan says, eyeing the borrowed dress.

“Because it looks beautiful on Riona.”

“You coming to the dance, too?” Raylan asks Bo. “I guess,” she says without much enthusiasm. “Wish I could go,” Shelby says wistfully, resting her hand on her swollen belly. “You could still come,” Bo says. “Yeah, but I can’t dance, so what’s the point,” Shelby pouts. “I’ll swing you around.” Grady grins, slinging a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Might make the baby come faster.” “That’s true,” Shelby says, perking up a little. “Go on,” Celia urges. “I’ll put the boys to bed.”

Even though she’d been fighting with Duke five seconds earlier, Bo shrieks with rage and runs at the two cowboys. She kicks cowboy number two right in the gut with the heel of her boot, then cracks him across the jaw with a right cross. The bigger cowboy seizes her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides, and she kicks both legs out in front of her, hitting his friend again.

Now Duke is properly pissed, and he throws his arm around the big cowboy’s neck, choking him until he releases Bo. But the cowboys apparently didn’t come alone—at least six other guys are joining the fight from all sides.

“You get a drop of cowboy sweat on you, and you’re never getting that smell out.” “You’re a cowboy,” I say, low enough that nobody else will hear. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten your sweat on me . . . ” Raylan grins. “That’s different . . . ”

“So, how’d you like your first country dance?” Shelby calls up to me from the backseat. “It was . . . pretty fun,” I admit. “You got the full experience,” Grady says. “No good dance ends without a brawl.”

I’m chasing after a girl who barely tolerates me, who seems determined to slam the drawbridge down on my head every time I try to wriggle my way through her castle wall.

Goddamn, Riona looked so gorgeous tonight. I love her in her lawyer clothes, but I’ve never seen anything prettier than her creamy skin against that pale green dress with her red hair all loose and wavy around her shoulders.

That’s what I see when I look at Riona. A woman who can be anything and do anything she wants. But she seems determined to deny it. I felt her pulling away from me as we danced. I saw that resentment flare up in her eyes again, that refusal to let herself enjoy something that she was obviously loving just a few minutes before. I don’t understand her. But goddamn do I want to.

I want it more than anything. I want to crack the code of her psyche. I want to win her over. I want to make her mine. And it’s not just ‘cause it’s a challenge. Maybe it started out that way—Dante calls me Long Shot for a reason. If you tell me I can’t have something, I want it ten times more.

I never wanted some sweet-tempered country girl. I adore Shelby—she’s just the right kind of angel to put up with my brother. But I don’t want that for myself. I want an equal. Someone who pushes me and challenges me. I want a partner.

The only problem is you can’t make somebody your partner against their will. And I don’t think Riona wants to tie herself to me for one goddamned second. I think even the idea of that would terrify her. I don’t know how to convince her to give me a real shot.

“Tell me why you were angry at me all of a sudden.” “I didn’t like the way you were leading me!” Riona cries.

“What are you talking about?” “When we were dancing—you were acting like we were dancing together. But you were the one in control.” “That’s what dancing is. The man leads, the woman follows.” “I don’t want that!” Riona snaps.

“I don’t want to follow someone else. I don’t want to be controlled by someone else.” “It was just a dance!” I say, with an incredulous laug...

“You’re trying to put a bridle on me without me noticing!” “I . . . what?” “I saw you out there with that horse. You were acting all calm and patient with it. Lulling it into a false sense of security. Then you put the bridle on it, and then you got on its back. And soon you were riding it around. And the horse was galloping as fast as it could, thinking it could get away from you. But it didn’t realize it was already trapped. And then you just wore it down until you broke it. I’m not going to be that fucking horse!”

“You don’t break a horse. Not in the way you’re saying. You could beat a horse, and whip it, and yell at it, and eventually you could break its spirit, but what the hell good would it be then? It’d be scared of you, skittish and jumpy. It’d probably startle when you least expected it and throw you off so you break your neck.”

“That horse had never been ridden in its life. So yeah, I had to calm it down, ease it into accepting me. You’re right about that. But once I got on its back, we both wanted to run. She started galloping, and I urged her on to go faster and faster. She’d been galloping around out in the fields, but she’d never been chased, she’d never raced before. She’d never really run. I didn’t break that horse. I set it free. I showed her what she could do. And she fucking loved it.”

“I don’t want to trap you. I want to unleash you. I want to set you free. I want to show you what you really are . . . ”

“I want you to give yourself to me. I want you to do exactly what I say. And if you don’t love every fucking minute of it . . . I’ll leave you alone for good. I’ll never bother you again. Do you agree?” Riona hesitates, and I pull her hair a little harder. “Yes or no?” I hiss. “Y—yes,” she stammers. “Good.”

I grab her by the throat and growl in her ear, “Shut the fuck up. You promised to do what I say.”

I squeeze her breast with my hand while I suck the nipple, as if I were milking her.

“If you do what I say, I’ll reward you. If you disobey…I’ll punish you.”

“Just so we’re clear, this is what punishment feels like.” I swing the crop through the air, whipping her smartly on the ass. Riona yelps, trying to pull away, but she’s tied tightly down over the bench.

“That was punishment,” I say. “This is reward . . . ” I massage her reddened ass cheek with my hand, gently soothing the sting. Riona relaxes and exhales softly, unable to resist my touch.

I pull my hand away. Riona groans in frustration. “Not yet,” I say. “You haven’t earned it.” I walk around to the front of the bench. I stand directly in front of Riona and unbutton my jeans, pulling out my cock, heavy and throbbing and already dripping pre-cum. I grip my cock by the base and hold it out to her. “Suck,” I order. For a moment Riona presses her lips together, contemplating disobedience. But she’s craving reward. So she opens her mouth and lets me feed her my cock.

“Good job, baby girl.” “I’m not your baby!” Riona says furiously. “Oh, you’re not?” I stride around her, picking up the crop again and bringing it down hard on her ass. Riona can’t help crying out.

“Ow!” she yelps. I whip her again, in the same spot. “Fuck!” she shouts, squirming and twisting. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I whip her ruthlessly until her entire buttocks are bright pink. Then I drop the crop and I thrust my fingers inside of her. She gasps, her warm, wet pussy twitching. Now she’s squirming for an entirely different reason. “Oh, god,” she moans.

“Only good girls get to cum,” I tell her in a low voice. She groans and presses harder against my hand, desperate for release. “Say you’re my girl,” I demand. Silence for a moment, then she gasps, “I’m yours!” “Mine to protect?” “Yes,” she pants. “Mine to ride?” “YES!” she cries, right on the edge.

“Oh my god . . . oh . . . I can’t . . . ” she pants. “Come for me again,” I demand, my face buried in her cunt.

I’m about to come. I can’t hold back much longer. But I’m determined to force one more orgasm out of Riona first. She’s exhausted, but I can feel her clit grinding against me, and I can feel her pussy starting to tense and tighten again.

“Come for me,” I growl in her ear. “Come for me right now.”

“That was insane . . . ” Riona groans when she can finally speak again. I kiss her once more, still hungry. Both of us are too weak and exhausted to move. “Insane” is an ambiguous word. It could be good or bad. But I don’t have to ask if she enjoyed it. I know what Riona needs.

I’ve never been so satisfied. Not just sexually—mentally and emotionally, too. That sex stimulated my brain and my desire unlike anything I’ve experienced. It’s paradoxical because I would have thought that I’d HATE to be treated like that. I fucking hate being restrained, controlled, or bossed around. But not by Raylan . . . I don’t understand it. How could everything I hate be twisted and turned to such a degree that I found it wildly arousing? Even as I’m drifting off to sleep, I’m pondering that question. Trying to understand what I just experienced.

I’ve never experienced what it’s like to fully esteem a man. To want to impress him. To want to please him. There was a particular pleasure in being conquered. Raylan is so handsome and rugged and capable that I felt like he deserved to have me. He deserved to have me any way he wanted.

Then, of course, there was a third element—how deeply filthy and taboo it all felt. He tied me down! He whipped me! He fucked me like an animal! I should be furious and disgusted. Instead . . . I fucking loved it.

That’s the core of why I was able to let go . . . because I do trust Raylan. However dominant and aggressive he might have seemed in the moment, deep down I knew that he would never actually hurt me. I allowed him to tie my hands because I knew that what followed would be pleasurable for both of us. I knew that even though he was pretending to use me for his own enjoyment, all the while he was watching my responses, gauging my arousal and my desire, so he could pull back from the edge of pain at just the right time and soothe me with exactly the right kind of touch. I trust him. Just that thought alone hits me like a hammer.

I’ve never trusted anybody outside my own family (I include Dante in that because he is my brother-in-law, after all). But I trust Raylan. I really do.

If his heavy, warm arms weren’t currently wrapped around me, I think that realization might terrify me. But I’m too calm, too drained, and too comfortable to feel any negative feelings right now. Instead, I slip off to sleep simp...

I remember how he seemed to transform into the most commanding, most powerful version of himself. The more dominant he became, the more my arousal grew. I wanted to please him. And the more I pleased him, the more pleasure I felt myself, in an endless feedback loop. He knew exactly what I needed. His attention was fixed on me a thousand percent. Those bright blue eyes were focused and intent, and his hands seemed to have a supernatural ability to wrench a reaction out of my body.

It strikes me that the Black Knights chose something quite different as their sigil—a kneeling man in a penitent pose. It’s not aggressive or violent. Instead, it seems to indicate chivalry and honor. Raylan is a good man. He’s been good to me. He’s protected me. He brought me to his own home to keep me safe. I look up into his face and I DO feel safe. I feel cared for. These are not sensations that come easily to me. Sometimes I struggle to feel that way even with my own family.

But Raylan isn’t obligated to care about me like family is. If he likes me, if he protects me . . . it’s simply because he wants to. It’s real and genuine.