What follows are two and a half weeks of relative calm.

Well, if you call hard ass work mucking out stalls and learning to groom and care for horses calm. Oh, and we can’t forget the part where I’m getting screwed into oblivion every night or, you know, at random points throughout the day whenever Xavier gets a wild hair that it seems like a good time to give Mel an orgasm and or to fuck her with whatever implement he might happen to have on hand.

Of course, never with his almighty cock. No, because apparently, I’d have to beg for that.

Ha. As if. He’s as crazy as he is inventive.

You see, he’s a big fan of improvisation. He always gives whatever object he’s decided to pleasure me with a good washing beforehand and he always sheaths it. He’s even prepared ahead of time and bought several things new just for this reason—such as one riding crop that he’s particularly fond of. He has a special leather bag in the stable full of his favorites. I have my own grooming brush, the crop, a bridle and bit he puts on me sometimes, and several other little toys.

At night inside the house is another story. There he has all different sizes and shapes of dildos he ordered for me. He gets an especially delighted grin every time he pulls a new one out of the box.

Sometimes he masturbates along with what he’s doing to me. Other times he doesn’t.

And even though I come every night, or hell, sometimes multiple times a day, I can’t help the mounting frustration that’s building. I don’t know what he wants from me.

Or I guess, God, that’s not true. He told me that first day out in the stables what he wants. For me to be out of my mind for him. And to freaking beg him?

I shake my head even as I scrape the pitchfork along the floor of the stall to separate Lulu’s clean bedding from the dirty. Then separate out the soiled hay. Lulu’s stall is one of the easiest. Maybe it’s because she was raised from a foal, but she always poops in one part of the stall and pees on the hay in another without getting her bedding too messed. I always leave hers for last because it’s a relative joy.

If only Lulu herself would warm up to me. But nope, while most of the other horses will let me approach them and I’ve even started grooming Pioneer, Bob, Paddyshack, and my favorite—Sugar—Lulu is still not a happy camper when I’m around.

She neighs and gets agitated, stepping back and forth, her eyes going crazy. Xavier says it’s something we need to work on and that she’s picking up on my anxiety, but I’m happy to just go groom one of the other nicer horses. Thankfully he hasn’t pressed the point.

And he has his hands full with Samson and the other animals.

He always spends a portion of his morning and evening with Holy Hellfire. He must have a special affection or relationship with the old ornery racehorse. Or rather, the racehorse who refused to race, I guess I should say. He puts ice packs on the aging horse’s hooves morning and night and feeds him a special grain. I’ll see him out there some evenings just standing and brushing his comb down the horse’s body long after the grooming should be done. If I wasn’t bound and determined to see Xavier for the bastard he is, I might almost think it was sweet. But nope, I’m far too clear-eyed for that.

Even if he did stop with the lasso around my waist after a couple of days. I swear, it’s like he’s extra assholish on purpose so then I’m brainwashed into thinking he’s being a good guy when he stops. Like how I felt all grateful after the dog kennel. And now with letting me off the lasso. When he pulls back and gives me back a modicum of freedom, he’s suddenly my knight in shining armor? Such BS.

The petty politics people used to play back in the corporate world have nothing on this guy. Though, I don’t know, I go back and forth from being sure he’s a master manipulator and then thinking he’s just making up everything as he goes along, completely on the fly.

Because when he’s working with the horses, he seems like the most natural and guileless person on the planet.

Now that I’m not forced to watch him training Samson, I find myself wandering out to the front paddock between my other chores.

The progression has been sloooooooow, but Xavier has made headway with the beast. At first it was a lot of standing around staring at each other. Samson would bolt every so often until Xavier walked close, hemming the horse in until he finally stood still again. Commence another stare-off.

After a couple days, Samson would stop long enough for Xavier to come near enough to touch his muzzle. By day three, Xavier was able to scratch up his long nose and touch his neck.

Then I swear he spends the rest of the week just doing that.

Just touching the horse.

Oh, and whispering to him. Can’t forget that. The secret Xavier-horse language he’s developed.

He is a horse whisperer. Like, a real one. He whispers to the animals and they respond with their horse noises. So much so that after three weeks, the jacked up, crazy-eyed Samson I met the first day doesn’t look much like himself. I come out after cleaning Lulu’s stall and put my arms on the fence to watch Xavier with him.

For the past two days, Xavier’s been tossing a small blanket over Samson’s back, then pulling it off again. Then tossing it on. Pulling it off.

I thought at this point Xavier could get away with anything, but at first, Samson seemed quite spooked at having something on his back.

Now as I watch, I see where Xavier is going with the whole exercise. Not only is the blanket on Samson’s back, but now Xavier’s hefting a whole saddle on as well.

Samson paws the ground nervously but Xavier gets it on. Then he pauses and goes to the front of the horse, whispering to him and cuddling him, forehead to nose. I can only shake my head in wonder.

Oh yeah, Samson’s already under Xavier’s spell big time. He might be putting up some last token resistance, but he’s already a goner.

When Xavier pulls back, Samson stands perfectly still while Xavier buckles the saddle in place underneath his stomach. He’s had a rope harness around Samson’s head for about a week now, and he holds the reins loosely.

Then, straight away, Xavier lifts his foot into the stirrup and stands up, holding onto the sides of the saddle for balance. Samson shuffles forward, turning his head sharply to see what’s going on. Xavier’s forced to drop back to the ground.

I jolt forward, hands going to the fence as the horse turns around in a circle, neighing. Xavier starts talking to him, patting his long neck. Then he grabs the saddle, hikes his foot up into the stirrup and tries again.

My heart leaps into my throat as again Samson heads forward, dislodging Xavier. Xavier jumps back to the ground.

What the hell is he doing? Obviously the horse isn’t ready for this step.

But Xavier just walks the short distance, grabs the saddle and yet again, hikes himself up.

With predictable results.

Damn him, why does he always have to push? It’s a wild animal, for God’s sake. Does Xavier just have some screwed up need to conquer everything in his path?

It’s obvious the freaking horse doesn’t want to be ridden. Of course he doesn’t. He spent his entire life roaming free, allowed to make his own decisions about what he was going to do each day, where he was going to go next, what he was going to eat and how he was going to eat it, where he was going to sleep—

His body was his own.

Before.

But then along comes this man.

Every day putting his hands all over you, demanding you call him Master, treating you like he owns you, body and soul… Making you question everything you thought you knew. About the world. About yourself.

It’s not fair.

I stare out at the mustang, willing him to hold true to his wild spirit. “Don’t let him conquer you,” I whisper under my breath.

Xavier hikes himself up into the stirrup again. Samson hesitates for just a moment before starting to shuffle forward.

It’s enough for Xavier to take advantage of. He swings his leg over the saddle and when Samson finally takes off, Xavier has the reins. He encourages Samson to keep going, but when he tugs on the left rope, Samson goes left until they’re riding in a brisk circle around the large paddock.

Xavier calls out loud praise to Samson as they go.

It’s both beautiful and horrible. Their bodies seam together in what looks like an unbroken line. Horse and rider—master and steed—connected in a single purpose.

I quickly turn on my heel and start walking away as quickly as possible, a clenched fist held over my heart against brewing hurt and rage.

***

“I got my period,” I say, staring down listlessly at the turkey sandwiches I prepared for lunch when Xavier comes in half an hour later. “I need tampons.”

That was a lovely discovery I made right after watching Xavier with Samson and went to the bathroom. Hello, Cousin Flo.

Goodbye hopes of this whole nightmare being over in nine months. And then I was flooded with relief, because, a baby? Like always, the thought of a screaming, squalling, shitting infant gets the same knee jerk reaction from me. Holy shit, just no.

Which was then followed by terror because what if Xavier was mad I wasn’t pregnant? Which was then swiftly followed by fury, because if he wanted me to get pregnant, then he should damn well start doing something about it!

And that was all just way too many waves of emotion to process in a three-minute period, so I stuffed my panties with toilet paper and then came to the kitchen to make lunch.

Followed by sitting down and staring aimlessly at my turkey sandwich. Yeah, this is turning out to be a real winner of a day so far. Can I have a free pass and just go back to sleep? Maybe claiming cramps will get me out of all the bullshit? Does this work like P.E.?

“Come with me.” Xavier takes my hand, drawing me out of my chair. Then he leads me up the stairs, all three flights.

“Lie on the bed,” he orders.

What? “Look, if you can just give them to me, then I’ll go downstairs, take care of it, and we can get back to lun—”

“On the bed.” The furrow between his eyebrow appears at my equivocation.

I let out a huff of air and throw up my hands but do as he instructs.

“You’re in a mood,” he says as he comes back, tampon in hand.

I close my eyes and throw my hand over my face. Oh my God, is he going to do something kinky with a tampon?

He pulls off my boots, then draws down my pants. I’m surprised he hasn’t responded to my dramatics with the arm over my face, but I don’t move it.

Let him ‘punish’ me or do whatever the hell it is he’s going to do. Not like I have a choice in it anyway.

I feel the bed shift when he gets up and then he returns a few moments later. Then he pulls down my panties and his hands are at my most delicate place, removing the no doubt bloody toilet paper from between my legs. I’m glad my arm is over my face because I have no doubt I’m going beet red.

Oh my gosh, some things were meant to be left private.

But no, there he is, just barging in. I try to squeeze my knees together. Naturally, he just spreads them right back apart. Then I feel him running a warm wash cloth methodically all around.

I have to bite my lip against tears at how gentle he’s being.

Why?

Why is he doing this to me? And what the hell is this anyway? He seems to want something more than a baby. Or maybe it’s that he just wants to have me completely under his thumb before I’m allowed the honor of carrying his seed?

Goddammit, going in circles trying to figure him out will make me crazy.

I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my bottom lip even harder. It’s just hormones. PMS stuff. And being locked up in this place with nobody but him to talk to for three weeks. Him and the damn horses. I’m bound to go a little nuts.

Still, I can’t help the strange flutter that goes through my stomach when I feel the gentle probe of the tampon as he slides it carefully into my channel.

There’s nothing inherently sexual about the act.

And when he leans over and I feel the press of his lips right over the hood of my clitoris, I feel more like he’s giving me some sort of blessing or it’s something spiritual for him rather than trying to excite me, for once.

Which makes my emotions go haywire all over again. I lift my arm from over my eyes and peek down at him, dark head bowed right over my womb.

Is he sad I’m not pregnant? Or is this something else? How can I live day in, day out with this man, sleep by his side every night and yet know so little about him?

“Thanks,” I say, squirming away from him and his bowed head. “We should get back out there. It’s time for the afternoon feeding.”

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and slide my underwear and jeans back up my legs. I’m just pulling on my first boot when his voice rings out firmly.

“No.”

I pause, mid-boot, and look over at him warily. “No?”

He shakes his head decisively, leaning against the backboard of the bed and observing me. “Since you aren’t with child, it’s time to get you up on a horse.”

My foot slides into the boot at the same time my stomach drops through the floor. “Oh, that’s not necessary.” I wave my hands. “They’re perfectly happy as they are. They don’t need me bumbling my way—”

“Part of getting to know a horse is riding them. That’s where relationships are truly forged. You’ve been teaching the horses to trust you by feeding and grooming them. Now it’s your turn to prove that you trust them.”

I can only stare at him open-mouthed for a long moment.

Trust a horse? With my life?

Does he hear himself?

“But they’re two thousand pounds!” I protest.

“Sugar’s only about fifteen hundred,” he says mildly, a twitch at one side of his lips like he’s amused by me.

My stomach calms down a little at hearing that it’s Sugar he’s thinking of trying out this insane idea on, but still!

Then I remember, “She’s a mustang.”

“And?” Eyebrow lift.

“And what if, I don’t know,” I throw up my hands, “she suddenly remembers what it was like to be a wild horse and gets it in her mind to go tearing off. With me on her back!”

He gives me a level stare. “Have you known Sugar to be anything but calm and sweet natured?”

“That’s not the point,” I scoff. “You said she was as wild as Samson.”

He props his elbow on his knee, then his chin on his fist. “Oh please, do tell me more about the disposition of my horses, since you have so much experience in this area. Not to mention that your discriminatory attitude against mustangs is fascinating to behold.”

I let out an outraged huff. “Discrimin— How dare you accuse me— I was just—”

“Fine,” he stands up, holding out a hand toward the bedroom door. “No Sugar, though she’s the sweetest mare you’d ever sit saddle on. Pioneer is almost as sweetly dispositioned and he seems taken with you. We’ll gear him up and have you riding circles before sundown.”

“Pioneer is the one who threw his owner!”

“His former owner was an abusive bastard.”

“Exactly.” I raise my hands. He’s making my point for me. “All the animals you’ve taken in are rescues. The same thing I was saying about Sugar could apply to any of them if they suddenly think of their former owners or situations and—”

“Enough.” Xavier’s voice crackles in the suddenly silent room and his dark eyes are enough to communicate that I’ve worn through his patience even if his tone didn’t.

He comes up to me, immediately invading my personal space. He lifts my chin and tilts my head so I’m looking up into his eyes. His other hand rises and he places his palm directly over my chest.

Can he feel how hard my heart is beating?

Just because of my fear about this preposterous idea of riding a horse. It has nothing to do with his physical proximity. Nothing at all.

“Fear has no place here.” His voice is softer now. “I would never endanger you.” His thumb caresses up and runs over where my heartbeat is a flutter at my throat. His eyes avert to stare at his hand as, for just a moment, his fingers close lightly around my throat.

“Trust,” his gaze comes back up to meet mine, “is the most precious gift you can give to any being.”

With that, he lets go of my throat and steps out the door, heading down the stairs.

I swallow hard, my own hand lifting to my neck where his was only moments before.

And then I follow.