LRPD - part nineteen - final chapter

*mostly edited - explicit sexual content

“What the fuck?”

Frost covered blades of grass crunch under your boots as you stare past the fence into the pasture, food bin and scoop falling to the ground. All the horses are lined up respectively in front of their buckets, except one.

Bolt.

Foreboding gathers a knot in your stomach as you slip through the gate, ignoring the Mable’s indignant huff. He’s not moving, still as a stone on his side, and you know before you get there.

He’s dead.

“Fuck. Fuck.” The second one cracks, breaks with the pressure of pain, sadness splintering it into two. “Bolt.” He was Liam’s. One of only two geldings, the only thoroughbred in the group. Retired from the amateur circuit, Liam bought him at an auction on impulse, brought him home without a word, just a shrug. He fit in well enough, was an easy ride, fun when he got going. You haven’t had him out in ages. “I’m sorry buddy.”

Your mind is already racing, trying to figure things out, make a plan. The process of disposing of a dead horse is not an easy one. You need a tractor, or a skid steer. You need to decide if you’re going to bury them on the property somewhere, or load them into a trailer to be taken for cremation, or pay a disposal service. To bury them, you need to rent an excavator. For cremation, they charge per pound. And the removal service, the costs vary. Either way, you’re shelling out money you don’t have, and either way, you won’t be at work today. You’ll have to take Riley to school and come back, sort it-

Riley. What are you going to do about Riley?

Riley’s talked about Bolt. Her dad’s racehorse. Dreamed of riding him, and now she’ll never get the chance, another connection to her parents, severed. Just another thing that will hurt her, another thing she’ll have to mourn. Another thing you can’t change or protect her from, another part of her life that will be painful.

You let yourself be sad for one minute. One quick minute of blinking back tears and holding your breath, one minute of rebuilding a bunch of blocks and walls that have been decimated. You can’t be weak, you can’t be like this. You have to do better, for Riley.

You have to be strong.

Your manager answers on the second ring.

“I’m sorry,” you start, already cringing, “I know it’s last minute but I’m not coming in today.” She sighs on the other end of the line, but doesn’t give you much shit. She can’t. You’re fairly reliable compared to others.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” No. “Everything’s fine.” She says something else but you’ve stopped listening, too busy scrolling through a website offering the removal service and then you hang up with an apology.

It’s less than ten minutes before your phone is ringing again.

Except this time, it’s not work.

It’s your husband.

*mostly edited

“What the fuck?”

Frost covered blades of grass crunch under your boots as you stare past the fence into the pasture, food bin and scoop falling to the ground. All the horses are lined up respectively in front of their buckets, except one.

Bolt.

Foreboding gathers a knot in your stomach as you slip through the gate, ignoring the Mable’s indignant huff. He’s not moving, still as a stone on his side, and you know before you get there.

He’s dead.

“Fuck. Fuck.” The second one cracks, breaks with the pressure of pain, sadness splintering it into two. “Bolt.” He was Liam’s. One of only two geldings, the only thoroughbred in the group. Retired from the amateur circuit, Liam bought him at an auction on impulse, brought him home without a word, just a shrug. He fit in well enough, was an easy ride, fun when he got going. You haven’t had him out in ages. “I’m sorry buddy.”

Your mind is already racing, trying to figure things out, make a plan. The process of disposing of a dead horse is not an easy one. You need a tractor, or a skid steer. You need to decide if you’re going to bury them on the property somewhere, or load them into a trailer to be taken for cremation, or pay a disposal service. To bury them, you need to rent an excavator. For cremation, they charge per pound. And the removal service, the costs vary. Either way, you’re shelling out money you don’t have, and either way, you won’t be at work today. You’ll have to take Riley to school and come back, sort it-

Riley. What are you going to do about Riley?

Riley’s talked about Bolt. Her dad’s racehorse. Dreamed of riding him, and now she’ll never get the chance, another connection to her parents, severed. Just another thing that will hurt her, another thing she’ll have to mourn. Another thing you can’t change or protect her from, another part of her life that will be painful.

You let yourself be sad for one minute. One quick minute of blinking back tears and holding your breath, one minute of rebuilding a bunch of blocks and walls that have been decimated. You can’t be weak, you can’t be like this. You have to do better, for Riley.

You have to be strong.

Your manager answers on the second ring.

“I’m sorry,” you start, already cringing, “I know it’s last minute but I’m not coming in today.” She sighs on the other end of the line, but doesn’t give you much shit. She can’t. You’re fairly reliable compared to others.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” No. “Everything’s fine.” She says something else but you’ve stopped listening, too busy scrolling through a website offering the removal service and then you hang up with an apology.

It’s less than ten minutes before your phone is ringing again.

Except this time, it’s not work.

It’s your husband.

“Maria said you called out. Are you alright?” It rushes out of him through the speaker, stress hanging from every syllable. “What didn’t you call me?”

“Yes.” You answer, clinging to a facade of control. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Is it Riley?” He presses.

“No, we’re… it’s fine.”

“Okay… do you need me?” Yes. Yes, you want to scream, yes I need you. Come here. Help me. Hold my hand while I do this. Kiss me and tell me everything is going to be okay like you always do. Hold me.

“No it’s just… something with the horses.” Key jingle in the background and you bite your lip until it stings.

“I can. I don’t have anything scheduled, I’m just here for call. I’m-”

“It’s okay, really.” The truth is, you don’t know what would happen if he came. You might crumble. You might lose your mind, fall apart, turn into a mess, and you can’t have that. You need to handle this. “I’ve got it under control.” He’s silent in response, and you swallow. “I’m fine.” It’s too familiar. The conversation is a ghost of months past, and you expect him to override you, overrule, the usual insistence, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he sighs.

“Alright Daisy.”

Work is busy.

The unit is on divert. Half the hospital is on divert, the full moon hanging over everyone’s head like a guillotine making you eternally grateful you’re off at seven. You’ve been there, done that. No thanks.

You’ve been dodging Simon left and right. Calls, texts, in the hallway, at bedside. You’ve gotten by with quick conversations, peeling away at every opportunity, throwing out excuses left and right. He keeps trying to pin you down in between the madness of this week, the over influx of patients that never seems to stop, all of it giving you ample time to escape. You shouldn’t be avoiding him, and you’re stricken at the pain it causes you, like a sore spot under your ribs, a blooming bruise sprawling across your skin. He’s changed you, broken down bits and pieces and reshaped them, made them soft, vulnerable, chinks in your armor turned to crevasses. The worst part of it all is these pieces aren’t even yours anymore.

They’re his.

“Daisy!” He barks over the heads of dayshift, charging down the hallway at break neck speed. “We’ve got one landing, let’s go.” Key’s eyes are as wide as saucers, and you shoot her a pleading look, even though you know she’s irritated with you because he’s been on a tear. She shakes her head vehemently. That’s gonna be a no.

You struggle to keep up, practically tripping over yourself in the race to the elevator, rattling off questions about what exactly is coming in, and getting short, succinct answers in response.

The elevator doors close, and he punches the button for the roof before crossing his arms. It’s stifling. Suffocating almost, and suddenly you’re not his wife, you’re the new hire, the one who left a stuffed animal in a crib, who misinterpreted a blood gas.

Though you haven’t really been acting like his wife this week.

You’ve been running in the opposite direction of him.

“I…” you want to explain yourself, apologize, but you don’t know how, and at the same time you think you owe him none of it at all.

“You what?” Frustration rattles your name on his lips and it’s jarring. He hasn’t snapped at you in so long you almost forgot how it sounded. How it felt.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.” He cocks his head.

“No one likes a liar Daisy.” You turn stiff, palms now sweating at your sides. Jesus Christ. “Are you ready?”

“I- what?” You can’t collect your thoughts, thrown too far off track, and his jaw clenches.

“Are you ready? Can you do your job or do I need to find someone else to do it?” You’re the bug again. The one under his microscope or worse, his shoe.

“I can do it.” You’re on his heels down the hall to where a helicopter has landed, your patient already off-loaded. She’s tiny, and grief cements around your heart. She must be barely viable, and just looking at her, how small she is, her nearly translucent skin, you already know. Her chances are worse than slim, they’re practically non-existent.

You say nothing on the way down as Simon thumbs through a tablet and goes over the need-to-know with the flight team. You just press your hand to the incubator, watch her little chest rise and fall, counting each one. It’s moments like these, patients like these that have you convinced you’re not cut out for this, that you shouldn’t be here at all, no matter how good the raise was.

“Daisy.” Simon snaps, redirecting your focus, and you swallow the lump in your throat. “Focus.” Right. Focus. You don’t look his way, but you nod. It’s the best you can do.

It’s late when the headlights flash across the house. Late enough Riley is already in bed, and you’re on the couch in a thread bare sweater and pajama pants, watching tv while trying not to look at your phone. You were livid today when you left work and it’s been left to fester, rotting your brain and turning the tissue black.

The lights have your heart jumping out of your chest. No one comes here. You’re almost two miles from the road, and while it’s not unheard of for Liv or Ava to randomly show up, you highly doubt that’s who it is.

You don’t even have to look out the curtain. You know it’s him.

His steps are heavy on the front porch, knuckles leaden against the glass, and you’re breathless as you stand at the door, trapped in flight or fight.

“Hi.” You croak. His arms are crossed, lips pressed into a firm line. If this was his office, he’d be leaned against the desk, legs stretched out in front of him, unimpressed glare frosting his eyes. But this is not his office, it’s your house, and the way he’s looking at you is all too familiar. Scrutinizing. Studying. “Um-”

“We need to talk.” The words are staccato, short and detached.

“Right. Yeah.” He follows you inside to the kitchen, and neither of you sit, instead taking respective places across from one another. You lean against the counter and try not to lose your nerve. “So-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Your jaw drops. Even if you wanted to try to control your response, you couldn’t. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, or whatever you’ll say to try to explain it all away. I want the truth.” Your jaw drops. You couldn’t hide your reaction even if you wanted to, because what would you say? You’d just end up stacking another lie on top of everything else if you told him he was wrong. And you both know it.

“I had a tough week.” He shakes his head.

“Liam’s horse died.” You freeze, eyes widening in disbelief.

“I- what- how-” You snap your mouth shut. Olivia.

“Don’t be mad at her,” he says quietly. “I don’t think she realized Kyle would say something.”

“Kyle. Nice.” Your words fall flat. Fucking Olivia.

“This isn’t about Olivia. It’s about you, not telling me that you were going through something difficult, not askin’ me for help.” His accent is thicker, sharper. A knife to your heart.

“I didn’t need it.” You sniff, and he smiles but it’s not the one you’re used to, it’s not the small one, or the one that’s warm and spreads all the way to his eyes. Instead, it’s almost cruel. There’s no love in it, and it’s a revelation realizing how much you want it to be there.

“Right, you didn’t need it. You don’t need anything, you don’t need help, you don’t need me, do you?”

“Simon.” You don’t know what to say, everything is falling away. Masks, armor, foundations. All of the control you spent this week trying to gather up and hide away in, it’s fleeing.

“Because you’re fine. Sounds familiar.”

“I really didn’t need help, it was just stupid horse stuff, and I wasn’t ready...” To talk about it. Your defense of your decisions, your words, is flimsy as hell, pathetic. It tastes like failure. He looms in front of you, moves closer, impenetrable rock standing tall in the sea, no matter how violent the waves that crash against it are.

“You weren’t ready for what baby?” For this. For any of it. For Liam’s horse to die, to lose one more connection to them, to get farther and farther away from a world where they existed.

“I don’t know.” You stare at the floor, try to ignore the ghosts of his fingertips trailing your jaw. He’s trying to crack you open, dig around in all these soft spots he’s made. You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” His hand slides to your nape, rests there. “I’m so sorry sweetheart.” Oh fuck.

“For what?”

“For what you’ve been through.” The backs of his knuckles stroke your cheek. He has two hands on you now, and the one at the back of your neck is solid in its grip. You can’t take a step back or to the side because he’s got you anchored. “For who’ve you lost.” You jerk but he holds you still.

“Thanks.” It’s void of emotion, flat line. He traces your bottom lip before slipping his thumb past it to find your teeth.

“I know how much it hurts to be here when they’re not, when they’re gone.” Your heart’s dull rhythm sharpens, and you swallow.

“Yeah, well.”

“Losing a sibling… nothing will ever take away how painful it is.” Jesus Christ. You try to sidestep him, try to get away but it’s pointless. Hunter, hunted, predator, prey, it’s playing out in your kitchen. “But you haven’t even had to time mourn them, have you? You went from being a sister to a parent overnight, takin’ care of a little girl who lost her parents.” It’s like he’s shot you, the pain is so real you wouldn’t be surprised if you were bleeding out from a hole in the middle of your chest.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” You intend it to be strong, but it comes out as a choke.

“You have to. It’s hurting you, keepin’ it all to yourself, and I won’t let you hurt yourself like this anymore.”

“I’m not, I’m not hurting myself.” His hold slackens and he shifts, just a little, but it’s enough for you to dip out from his hand and through the gap between the counter and his side.

“Daisy.” His tone is so even, so calm, like he’s not affected whatsoever by his this. You slide across the tile, no idea where you’re going. No end goal, just fleeing on instinct, looking for an advantage, a way to shut this down, shut him out, force-

He grabs you from behind. It’s so fast, and before you can truly process it, he has you pressed against the wall, your cheek flush with the paint.  The shiver of the thrill, of the chase, illogically ricochets up your spine, and desire sparks in your belly. It makes you all that more angry. You thrash, wiggle, rock from side to side but he’s too strong, his entire weight pressed against you too formidable to throw off. “What-”

“Relax, Daisy. Just relax.” His lips brush the shell of your ear, and then your cheek, your jaw, each kiss sweeter and sweeter, tender to the bone. His chest expands slow, steady, deep breaths and yours follow, syncing together naturally, seamlessly. “That’s good baby, that’s perfect.”

“What are you doing?” You snap, twisting, but it’s useless.

“I’m takin’ care of you.” He kisses the back of your neck and then works upward again, grazes your earlobe, finds your temple. You shiver. An animal has taken over your mind, your instincts and blood running hot, memories of his fingers, his mouth, his touch everywhere. You wear him like a brand. “Everything’s okay.” You feel his words, and you don’t want them. You don’t need them. He’s always saying it, you’re okay, Daisy, everything’s okay, everything is going to be fine.

“Stop.” You hiss. This time, you really try. You wedge a foot against the baseboard and push, arcing, creating a minute amount of space before he forces you back into position, pressing you against the wall.

“Try again if you want.” His knee knocks yours wide and you shake your head. “Tell me you don’t want this,” his hand moves across your stomach, slow, patient, locking you in place. You try to roll the words off your tongue but they’re stuck, jammed up behind the whirling storm that’s taken over your mind, your heart, the ache blooming between your legs. “Maybe you want something else instead? You don’t want it sweet, we already know that. You’re not sure you even deserve it, but maybe this…” A switch flips. He goes from tender to cold, and you know if you could see his face, you wouldn’t see your Simon, you’d see the surgeon. “Maybe this is what you want. This is who you want. This is who doesn’t make you think about your sister, who lets you run away when it hurts, who doesn’t care how hard it is for you, who let’s you hide, right?” This fucking man. You hate him.

“What? No, I don’t know.” Nothing makes sense and you’re lost in it, the fog that’s rolled in, the one that has you moaning when he nips at the junction of your neck and shoulder, worn out sweater pushed to the side to reveal your skin.

“Such a smart girl, but so wrong and you don’t even know it.” He slips beneath the band of your sports bra to find your nipples, already stiff, tight as he rolls one under his thumb. Your stomach clenches.

“You’re an asshole.”

“No baby, I’m your husband.” He tugs your jaw, turns your mouth to his and claims it, swallows your half hearted protest, sucks the bitter rage free and leaves longing in its wake. It just makes you all that more angry.

“You can’t just come in here and- and-” His hand snakes downward, beneath your sweatpants to find your shame. You’re wet. It’s unfair. Being touched by him, even like this ruins you, could bring you to your knees without a fuss.

“An’ do what?” Kiss you. Touch you.

Love you.

Ruin you.

It’s getting to be too much.

“Simon-” His hand plunges into your pants. Threadbare flannel, years old, they give immediately, and his fingers slide into your panties.  You jolt like a live wire.

“What?” Teeth on your ear, a pinch then a kiss. Sharp then sweet, symbolic in a way. “Simon what?”

“I- fuck.”

“What is it sweet girl?” He murmurs into your skin, thumb rolling across your clit. “What do you want?”

“More.” He doesn’t listen, doesn’t give in. Instead, he practically yanks you away from the wall, pushes you towards the couch until he’s folding you over the back, ass in the air, pants at your ankles.

“Yeah? You want more, ’s that it? You want your husband to touch you, make you come?” You nod, whimper, pathetic noises betraying your desperation. You don’t care about anything except this, this right now. Him and you. “Never thought,” his fingers find their hold between your legs, slipping through where you’re soaked and inside, hitching upward against that small spot that makes your spine curl, “this is how it would be our first time.” You try to turn, to see, but his other hand is firm at the small of your back, and you don’t have much slack.

The drag of his zipper ricochets around the room like a gunshot, and the noise you make is more animal than human. Fight or flight.

“I- are you-” The head of his cock drags along the back of your thigh and you gasp. His hand clamps down on the back of your neck, pinning you in place, smearing you across the slide and settling you under the microscope. You can’t move, yet he orders you to anyway. “Stay still.”

“Simon.” it’s you can manage, is his name. It’s all you have to convey your confusion, your desire, your hesitation, until, weakly- “condom?” He’s closer, cock slipping between your folds, every movement a bolt to your swollen clit.

“A husband doesn’t fuck his wife with a condom.” You almost black out right then and there. Struck by lightning, darkness ebbs, waiting to close in around you. A husband doesn’t fuck his wife with a condom. “Spread your legs baby, there- good.” There’s a notch, a key in a lock, and you try to garble out some nonsense about a condom again. “I’d never put you at risk.” A full body shudder rattles against yours, and you arch. “I take care of you Daisy, I look after what’s mine.” He nudges, it pinches, and you whimper. “C’mon, open up f’me.” He doesn’t wait, doesn’t linger in the aftermath, and the weight of his cock inside you grows heavier. Too big. Too much.

“Oh, oh-” You try to inch away but the hand on your neck doesn’t give. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your lips. “It won’t- you’re too big.”

“”I’ve got you,” he reassures, squeezing your hip, the flesh of your ass, but the stretch is burning, and panic is rising in your chest. Your breath hiccups too sharply. “Breathe through it baby, you can take me.” Each word is a balm, a command that coaxes you, and he strokes a hand down your spine as he waits, patient as ever, watching as always. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.” He pushes deeper and you stiffen again. “Easy- there you go.” You’re so full it’s like he’s in your stomach, in your chest, but each kiss, each languid trail of his fingertips soothes you, softens you. As always. You push up, tipping your head back to find the pillow of his flesh and close your eyes as you rock against him. He drags his mouth down your throat, kissing the frantic pulse beneath your jaw, each one more reverent than the last. Something burns at the back of your eyes, something long lost and hidden away, something that almost doesn’t recognize what’s happening, what’s been happening all along. It’s hard to remember what it’s like to do anything but survive.

His fingers slip between your legs to your clit to circle the bundle of nerves slowly. Each touch intentional, every single second thought out, planned with patience, tender, and the sound you make is less of a moan and more of a choked cry, the raging river running beneath your skin threatening to force it’s way out. He’s slow with it. Methodically pushing you towards an orgasm but not giving quite enough to unravel you, instead leaving you right there on the edge as he grinds his hips and fucks you deeper.

“Simon.” Your lower lip is trembling and your eyelashes are dewy. What is happening to you? Panic closes your throat. “I need- I can’t-”

“Just breathe Daisy. You’re alright.” Another thrust, another circle of his fingertips and you’re arching, straining onto your tiptoes, trying to find more. “That’s it, perfect. You’re perfect.” You’re drowning. Drowning alive, gasping and shaking and holding onto the arm he has around you so tight there might be blood beneath your nails, desperately trying to fight the wave that’s about to crash down and break you. “Come for me.”

“I can’t- ah,” you shake your head repeatedly, stuck in a loop.

“You can baby, it’s okay.” But it’s not okay. This is not okay. “I’m right here, I’m with you. Let it out, give it to me.”

“N-no.” This time, it truly is a sob, and your wet cheek turns into his chest. “You don’t… you don’t understand.”

“There isn’t a single piece of me that doesn’t understand you, Daisy. From the very first day I met you, I’ve always understood you. I’ve-” It’s choked off, whatever he was going to say, and instead his teeth find your shoulder, the pressure of a bite clamping down. It smarts, just enough to spark a fire in your belly and pull you from the fight. You loose your grip on the rope. You fall. Too fast, too hard, it’s violent, and you shatter into stars, millions of little lights exploding across the sky. “Fuck. There it is,” he grits, picking up his own pace to follow you, fall into the night with you, every shred of your control finally crumbling down.

You’re not present when he pulls out, when he supports your weight during the short walk to the couch, when he gently leans you back into the pillows, you don’t flinch when he runs a warm cloth between your legs, you barely register his low cadence, the steady hum of his words. “I’m so proud of you, you did so good, I’ve got you.”

“I love you.”

You’re still in the sky, a million stars in his arms, stardust clinging to every piece of him.

It’s real. All of it. It’s real.

And you’re not alone.

His heartbeat is steady under your ear. An easy tempo to match yours, and you follow the rise and fall of his chest, syncing your breaths. He cups your cheek, tips your head back, eyes searching, cataloguing. Whatever he sees, it meets inspection, and he smiles. One of the ones that crinkles his eyes.

“There she is. There’s my girl.” You can’t see past the tears that blur your vision, can’t hear anything over his words, can’t feel anything but his body, inside and out. The truth is overwhelming, like you’ve run straight into the thing you’ve been trying to escape all along. This flame he’s been feeding inside you, the one that’s been growing against your will.

“I love you.” It bursts free, cracks you open, and you feel his stutter, his surprise before he pulls you into his chest, cups the back of your head and presses his lips to your temple, your crown, every spare inch he can find.

“Christ, Daisy.” His mouth grazes yours delicately before turning hungry, and he kisses you until your lips sting and swell. “You’re mine.” He holds your face in his hands, holds you steady and still as he stares down at you. “You’re mine, you’ve always been mine, and you’ll never be alone again. I love you, Daisy. I love you.” The realization is humbling. It’s been this way the whole time. Through every fight. Every time you bolted or tried to throw him off, he’s stayed firm, because it’s real. It’s love. And it burns so brightly inside you, you’re not sure it can ever be snuffed out.

“This is it. For both of us. It’s real.”

“This is it baby. It’s real.” You fold your fingers with his, two rings shining in the low light. Two promises, two truths. The rest of it, the details, the logistics, they don't matter. All that matters is this man, who's made you and Riley his family, who's vowed to take care of you over and over again. The man who saved your niece so you could spend the rest of your life loving her. The man who's been here even when you've hurt him, the surgeon, the husband, the paradox. The one who catches you, crumbles you-

loves you.

“Til death do us part.” You breathe, finally understanding. Finally seeing. He smiles again, presses your palm against his heart, and nods.

“Til death do us part.”