Star Wars is an Allegory

John Price stood by the reinforced door, practically swallowing the limited space. He had his heavy tactical jacket unzipped just a fraction, the scent of tobacco, rain, and sweat clinging to him like a second skin. His blue eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, always aware of everything around him, tracked you as you dropped your rucksack onto the dusty floor. 

“Cosy,” you remarked, wiping a layer of grime off the back of a plastic chair. “I see the Royal Army really spared no expense on the honeymoon suite. 

Price let out a low huff— the closest you’d get to a laugh while knee-deep in the red zone, halfway through a deep-cover mission. He pulled his watch cap down tighter over his ears. “You’re lucky it’s got a roof, love. Last time I was in this sector, I slept in a ditch with a wet poncho.”

“And you’ve been lovely ever since,” you shot back mindlessly, unbuttoning your own heavy coat to check the seals on your sidearm. You didn’t look up, but you could feel his gaze on you, always. Heavy, observant, laced with the respect he only reserved for operatives who were genuine survivalists out in the field. Sometimes you wondered if he only ever liked you because you didn’t know how to complain. “Don’t worry, Captain. If you get cold, I’ll let you have the chair.”

Price took a slow step forward, floorboards groaning a little beneath his boots. He leaned against the low ceiling beam, looking down at you with that maddeningly calm, knowing smirk hidden in his stupid beard.

“Is that right?” his voice dropped an octave, a rough purr that vibrated right through the thick, stale air of the room. “Generous of you. But I outrank you, Sergeant. Which means if anyone’s taking the luxury seating, it’s me.”

“Ah, pulling rank already? We’ve only been locked in a basement for, what, ten minutes?” you finally looked up, meeting his eyes with a challenging tilt of your chin. “I thought you liked a capable partner, John.”

“I do,” Price murmured, holding your gaze, his own darkening a little. Though you weren’t sure, as exhaustion had played with your brain way too many times before and told you that on quiet nights like this, Price was thinking exactly the same things as you were. “Which is why I’m letting you figure out how we’re both going to fit on a mattress meant for a single schoolboy without one of us falling off.”

Ah. Sure.

The unspoken rule between the two of you had always been distance. It wasn’t born out of dislike— quite the opposite, actually. In your line of work, professional distance was a life jacket. The cold, the bone-deep exhaustion, the proximity of holding the line with someone could easily play tricks with your head, make you see things that weren’t necessarily there, have you holding onto words like the world outside of that specific perimeter had lost all its meaning. 

Price was a man who carried the weight of too many ghosts, and you were a woman who valued her autonomy too much to let a commander see the softer edges of your armor. But there was a gravity between you, undeniable in its nature, a pull that both of you spent a massive, unnecessary amount of energy pretending didn’t exist. 

You took great interest in the smaller details of the room whilst your brain scrambled to find a way to get you out of the situation, before setting your eyes on him.

“A schoolboy’s mattress,” you repeated, voice a dry defense mechanism against the sudden tightness of your chest. “Right. Well. Good thing I practiced my posture in training.”

The banter was a shield, of course, but as the clock ticked past midnight, the cold began to strip it away. The heating unit in the corner, which you deemed hopeless within twenty minutes of settling in, gave one pathetic hiss before dying completely, leaving the air so frigid your breath bloomed in fragile, ghostly clouds between you. The Siberian winder certainly didn’t care about the military rank Price was always so eager to pull with you; if it could seep through the concrete this much, it could easily bypass your skin to settle deep into your bones until shivers wracked your shoulders.

Price noticed. Why were you even surprised, he noticed everything.

“Drop the boots and the rig,” he commanded quietly. It wasn’t his ‘Captain’ voice that you were used to— it was lower, thicker, roughened by the drop in temperature and something else he was trying hard to suppress. “We’re losing heat. We freeze up, we’re useless tomorrow.”

You didn’t have it in you to argue this once. The bravado was gone, replaced by the instinct to just survive which was quickly blurring into something far more dangerous in your book. You stripped off your tactical vest and boots, leaving you in your thick thermal layers. When you climbed onto the narrow cot, pressed flat against the damp concrete wall to leave him room, you realized just how impossible this was going to be.

The bed groaned under his weight as Price laid down beside you, facing away at first, trying to preserve a polite boundary. But you both knew it was useless. The cold was a physical blade, cutting through the thin fabric of your thermals, the skin beneath, your bones. You shivered again, hard enough that the rusted springs gave a little.

With a heavy sigh that sounded a lot like surrender, Price turned around. 

Thank God you were facing away from him because if you had to face him in the dark now, you would probably say something stupid.

“Come here,” he muttered into the dark. 

Before you could even try to fire back a witty retort, his arm reached out, hooking around your waist and pulling you backward against his chest. The impact took your breath away. He was a literal furnace— visceral, solid, and utterly massive. Your back pressed flush against his torso, thighs nesting into his, head tucked just beneath his chin. 

The dynamic shifted in an instant, you could feel it. You were no longer just two highly capable soldiers sharing a safehouse to lay low for the night. You felt skin and bone, heartbeat and heat, terrifyingly, deliciously close. 

Price’s breath hitched as your heat met his. Through the layers of clothing, you cold feel the hard expanse of his chest rising and falling against your shoulder blades, his heart thumping a steady rhythm that almost matched the sudden racing of your own. His beard brushed the crown of your head, the scent of him enveloping your entire being completely. He was rigid, every muscle in his body coiled tight as a spring, as if he were actively fighting the urge for something. To pull you closer, your treacherous mind whispered into you. To feel your body against his, closer, warmer, perhaps even wetter.

He’s affected by this, you realized, a sudden thrill of heat shooting through your veins that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather. The great John Price isn’t as untouchable as he lets on.

“Still cold?” he murmured, his voice rumbling directly into your spine, making its way down in between your legs, to contribute to the growing anticipation there.

You remained entirely frozen, terrified to your bones that even a single, misplaced shift of your weight would shatter the fragile illusion of military necessity. But the cold was unrelenting, forcing you to melt backward, pressing your spine firmer against the solid wall of his chest.

“I’ll survive, Captain,” you managed, voice nothing above a hushed thread in the dark. “Though I think you forgot to mention in your briefing that field-expedient thermal sharing involved being spooned by a human bear.”

Price let out a sound— not a huff this time, but a vibration that rippled right through your shoulder blades, making your muscles go taut. His arm, still wrapped around your waist, tightened just a little bit, pulling you a microscopic inch closer until there wasn’t a single millimeter of air left between his front and your back.

“It’s called survival, Sergeant,” he murmured, breath hot against the shell of your ear. You shushed your mind before it could tell you that he was doing it deliberately. “If you’ve got complaints, you can file ‘em with Hereford when we get back. Till then, shut up and take my heat.”

“Always so textbook,” you whispered, tilting your head back just slightly. The crown of your head rubbed against his jaw, the rough stubble of his beard catching on your hair. “And here I thought you were breaking character just to be nice to me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, love.” the term of endearment slipped out a little too easily, too breathily, with a weight that didn’t necessarily belong on a mission roster. Price’s fingers twitched where they rested against your stomach. His hand flattened there then, palm heavy and searingly hot through the synthetic fabric. He was pinning your hips directly against the apex of his thighs, and you didn’t have a single intention of complaining. 

“Besides,” Price added whilst shifting his weight, large thigh sliding between yours a bit. “If I were breaking character, you wouldn’t be doing this much talking.”

A treacherous thrill coiled tight in your lower stomach. The undercurrent of the remark he threw so casually wasn’t a blunt admission, no, that wasn’t in Price’s nature, but it was there— thick, sticky with a promise that made the back of your throat go dry.

“Is that a threat, Captain?” you whispered, your own voice taking on a slight edge. You tilted your hips back just a fraction into his heat, testing the boundary, testing him. “Last I checked, I’ve never had an issue keeping up with your pace. In or out of the field.”

You heard a jagged intake of air that ruffled the hairs at the nape of your neck, then, you felt the immediate consequence of your movement— hardening of a certain something against your lower back, thick and unmistakable even through the heavy layers of clothing. He was fighting a losing battle against his own restraint, and you weren’t exactly making it easier for him.

“Careful now,” the warning rumbled right into your skin. His hand on your stomach moved, palm spreading wide, charting the curve of your hip with an agonizingly slow pressure. “You’re playing a high-stakes game in a very small room, love.”

“But you’re the one who told me to take your heat,” you breathed, the dizzying heat washing over you entirely eradicating the chill that a few minutes ago was paralyzing you. “I’m just… following orders. Finding out how much you’re willing to give.”

“Wanna talk orders?” his voice was a rough purr now, lips brushing your earlobe as he spoke, sending an electric ache straight down between your thighs. His fingers dug a little deeper into your hip, pulling your backside flush against the rigid line of his groin. “If I give you an order right now, Sergeant, I’d have to make sure you take every single piece of it.”

The weight of his tone made your knees weaken, even lying down. It was a masterclass in control, a tether keeping the monster on a leash, but the leash was fraying way too fast. Every slow rise and fall of his chest rubbed torturously against you. 

“Then why don’t you?” you challenged softly, heart hammering against your ribs. “Unless the Captain is all talk tonight.”

Price didn’t answer that. The time for words, apparently, was over.

His hand moved from your hip with urgency, large fingers gripping the waistband of your thermal trousers before hauling them down along with your underwear in one heavy sweep, exposing your bare skin to the biting chill of the room. That didn’t last long, though, as his massive, burning body crowded right back against you. You heard the harsh, metallic slide of his own zipper, the rustle of heavy fabric, then the staggering reality of his bare length pressing directly against the slick, aching heat between your thighs.

He was massive. 

You let out a soft gasp into the dark, hands reaching back to blindly grip at the fabric of his shirt for leverage as he grabbed a hold of your leg, lifting it up and hooking it over his, opening you right up for easy access as his fingers found their way over to your aching clit.

“All talk?” Price growled into the nape of your neck, voice stripped of all the restraint it had before. It was deep, feral, and deeply, deeply hungry. “Let’s see how well you keep up now, hm?”

With a tilt of his hips, and a helping hand, Price managed to drive himself forward a bit, blunt tip catching onto your desperate entrance.

He didn’t ease into you, not that you expected him to. He sank straight into your tight, drenched heat in one long push, filling you to the absolute brim. The light pain of his thick length stretching you open took the breath out of your lungs, having your eyes snapping open in the dark, spine arching off his back as pleasure crashed over your brain. A loud, high-pitched cry built in the back of your throat, threatened to tear past your lips and echo straight up through the floor to the street above.

Before the sound could even escape, though, Price’s large hand slammed over your mouth. 

His palm was warm, smelling of one of his cigars, effectively smothering your voice into a muffled, breathless whimper against his skin.

“Shh, quiet, baby,” Price hissed against your ear, holding you completely still for one torturous second, letting your desperate body stretch and adjust to the fullness of him. “One sound out of you, and we’re compromised. You stay quiet for me, okay pretty girl? You hear me?”

You could only nod frantically against his palm. The danger of the mission outside was entirely eclipsed by the overwhelming danger and embarrassment of the orgasm forcing its way to the surface, before he even had a chance to move properly. 

Price let out an approving grunt. “Good girl.”

Then, he began to move.

Because of the cramped, narrow spooning position, every single thrust had to be so, so deep and agonizingly slow. He pulled back until he was almost entirely out, letting the freezing air hit the slick skin of your cunt, before driving all the way back in, bottoming out against you with a wet thud each time. His thick hips rolled against your backside, weight crushing you into the wall and the hard mattress with every relentless stroke of his. 

You writhed against him, muffled whimpers trapped behind his hand as he tore through all of your defenses. The pleasure was too sharp, too much. Every time he hit your sweet spot, your legs twitched helplessly, begging for a faster pace, but Price maintained a commanding rhythm of his own. He was using his size to dominate the space, thick thighs anchoring yours, chest pinning your shoulders flat when he moved a bit further to keep you under him.

“Look at you,” Price whispered roughly, lips dragging along your jawline. “Taking all of it. So quiet. Built perfectly for this, aren’t you? My perfect little soldier.”

The dirty praises sent an entirely new wave of heat straight to your core. You clamped your thighs tighter around his leg, tilting your pelvis back to meet his deep thrusts, desperately chasing the peak that had been building between your legs a while.

Price felt the shift in your body, the tight squeeze of your wet walls around his girth. He let out a low groan, hand gripping your jaw just a little tighter. “Yeah, just like that,” he muttered, breaths coming in short pants now as his own control began to fray at the edges. “Take it all from your captain, baby, take all of me.”

You felt Price’s restraint snapping cleanly in two when he stopped pulling back. He simply drove into you over and over, frantic thrusts that slammed his hips flush against yours with a wet echo, and at that point, his tight hand around your jaw wasn’t doing much to muffle you. The rusted springs of the cot creaked beneath, but neither of you cared about the noise anymore— not when he was so big and unforgiving, not when you were so tight and soft beneath his palms. 

“I’m gonna ruin you,” Price growled, voice barely feeling human as his teeth grazed your shoulder. “Gonna fill you up. Fucking breed you. Just hold on, love, hold on for me.”

Your walls clamped helplessly around him, and the orgasm actually felt like a physical blow against your pussy. You arched your spine, eyes rolling back in the dark as a choked, muffled scream was smothered entirely into his palm. Your walls clamping tight around his rigid length as you came around him pushed Price right over the precipice. 

He let out a guttural moan against your neck, body locking up when he drove himself into you one final time, burying his length as deep as it could possibly go, and then, he unleashed.

You felt the pulsing before the warmth flooded your tight space, filling you to the absolute brim. He poured into you in deep waves, the volume of his seed pooling deep within  your core until it slickly escaped the seal of your skin to drip onto the mattress beneath you. Price remained buried deep, chest heaving against your back, heart hammering on top of you like a war drum as he slowly emptied himself into you. 

For a long, beautiful minute, the only sound was the desperate panting of two people trying to catch their breaths. 

You felt him soften slightly, though he stayed put, preserving the connection there for a hot minute before carefully withdrawing his large hand from your mouth, fingers trailing down your jaw, over your chin, before resting against the pulse point on your neck. 

He pressed a soft kiss to the damp skin beneath your ear, breath still hot and shallow.

“Love,” he whispered into the dark, shifting his weight to ensure he wasn’t crushing you. “You alright? Did I hurt you?”

“I just might have to start disobeying orders more often, Captain,” you murmured with his soft chuckle rumbling against your back, as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Smart mouth,” Price whispered affectionately, thumb gently stroking the pulse point on your throat before he retreated a bit to pull the blankets back up over the two of you. 

You ran like your life depended on it. Because it did.

Sand and dirt and dust kicked up with every pounding stride, every heavy footfall of your old boots striking the unpaved roads towards town, your heart beating rapidly in your chest, threatening to burst right through flesh and bone. Your head was on a swivel, snapping back to glance over your shoulder at the man chasing you, hunting you — polished steel revolver brandished in his grip, a weapon that you were all too familiar with.

You didn’t dare slow down.

Legs aching, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your spine — you kept going, kept racing down the hill as fast as you could, hiking up your white skirt so you wouldn’t trip, your lungs burning with every stolen breath.

Another glance over your shoulder to see him. He was gaining on you, fast. Your eyes met from across the shrinking distance, his wild, cold, and angry. Furious. 

The gun in his hand came up, pointing towards you as he fired. 

You shrieked, ducking as the bullet sliced right past your head. Tears stung your eyes as you forced yourself to move faster, quicker; every muscle in your body throbbing, blazing with effort.

The edge of town just up ahead, you hightailed it forward, the dry earth kicking up into clouds around your feet, your legs. The midday sun beat down, the heat unforgiving, the main street glowing in a haze of gold, but it didn’t stop the crowds from forming, the town from going about its business. People strolled casually, lingering in open doorways and under overhangs, stopping to converse with friends, strangers, and other townspeople. Horses neighed, some stomping their feet while tied to nearby posts while others clopped steadily behind their riders who guided them along, weaving through the afternoon hustle and bustle; the smell of sun-baked timber, sweat, gunpowder, and tobacco smoke floating through the air.

None of them paid you any mind as you tore past, fear driving you forward, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The crowds parted as you barged your way through, muttering curses under their breath or snapping loudly after you, but none of them stopped nor cared enough to come to your aid. Not when you screamed for help, shouted that he was going to kill you. Not as warm blood trickled down your temple, dribbling into your eye, purple and yellow-tinged bruises covering your arms. 

It wasn’t their problem. You weren’t their problem.

You didn’t know where you were going, what you were going to do. You had no plan, no route, no exit strategy. All you knew was that you didn’t want to die — not yet, not by his hands. 

For all that he had put you through, you refused to let him be the one to end your life — a vow you’d quietly made to yourself the same day you exchanged those on the altar. 

But he was closing in now, closer than before. The hordes of people had only slowed him down briefly, not enough to distract him so you could scurry away, out of sight. He shouted your name, his voice enraged and booming, catching the attention of passersby as you fled — desperate, trapped, fearing that you were about to be caught, ensnared in his vengeful wrath.

Without thinking, your survival instincts on high, you swerved to the left, darting down a side road. 

“You can’t outrun me, you little fuckin’ hussy!” His voice followed you around the bend, his own leaden footfalls close behind — too close. “You’re mine, goddamnit! No matter how far you run!”

Terror clawed at you, threatening to pull you under, to consume you. You gasped for air, knowing there wasn’t much more you could take, much further you could go before your legs gave out from under you. Dread settled into your gut, that familiar feeling of hopelessness and doom trickling in, inclined to snuff out all semblances of freedom, of escape.

In a last-ditch effort, you thundered up the wooden steps of the nearest building, the grimy windows rattling in their frames as you all but threw yourself through the swinging saloon doors.

You fell face-forward, stomach hitting the dusty floor with an oof, knocking the wind right out of your lungs. 

“Jesus, lassie.” A voice cut through the room — rich, rough, and unmistakably foreign. Not from around here. “Y’alright?”

You groaned, your vision swimming as you attempted to push yourself up, to get a better look at your surroundings.

“Please, he’s—” Your voice was hoarse, raspy from your yelling, your overexertion. “He’s going to kill me—”

“Who?” Another deeper voice demanded — a different accent than the first — boots thudding on the floor as they approached, their figure hovering somewhere near you. “Who you running from, doll?”

Before you could answer, before your vision cleared, you heard him — the thunderous, heavy footsteps that made your breath catch in your throat, your heart hammer in your chest from more than just your physical exhaustion.

The saloon doors flew open behind you as he burst in, finally having caught up with you.

Your husband.

You scrambled forward, as much as you could muster, but his boot slammed into your back, pinning you down to the floor, making you wheeze.

“There you are.” He growled, his voice nothing more than a snarl, a promise for what you were in for, now at his mercy. “I warned you. You can’t fuckin’ outrun me, you dirty lil’ whore.”

You cried out as he pushed down even more, crushing your spine under his leather sole.

Chairs scraped back against the wooden floor, the unmistakable sound of multiple sharp clicks as guns cocked, ready to fire. 

Your husband’s grating chuckle filled the air, the hair on the back of your neck raising at the sound. 

“What is this?”

He tried to sound unbothered; calm, cool, collected — but you knew better. Knew, even without seeing him, that he was scared. His voice had lost its arrogant edge in the face of potential danger, of one he didn’t orchestrate or cause himself.

“Take your filthy fuckin’ boot off ‘er.” That first voice ordered, commanding and rough. You tried to lift your head, to get a better glimpse of what was going on, but his foot forcefully shoved you back down, your cheek mashed against the planks, skin scraping against the rough surface.

“Why? So y’all can get a crack at ‘er?” His laugh was cruel, callous — it made you flinch. It always did. “Be my fuckin’ guest, mates. Good luck getting ‘er to open her legs for ya. ’Bout as wet as the fuckin’ drylands. A good for nothing whore, I’ll tell ya.”

“You get off beatin’ on women, don’t ya?” That second voice, the deeper one, asked — his tone calmer, almost unnervingly even. “Makes you feel all good and strong, ain’t it?”

Your husband snorted. “This one ain’t hardly a woman. Seen better manners on a damn’d horse. That animal’s worth more than she is.”

“If she ain’t worth a damn, then why waste your time?” That first voice again. “Let her go, lad. Before you make an even bigger mess outta this.”

You squirmed beneath his boot, struggling to break free — to gain any leeway, any space — but it only made him press down harder, his other foot slamming into your ribs, sharp and punishing. A sob broke free from your throat, which only spurred his brutality on.

“What don’t you fuckers get? She’s mine.”

He reached down, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking you up hard — ignoring your cries, your pleas, the blood already dripping down the side of your face as he jerked your body flush against his chest. You felt the steel of his revolver as he pressed it against your back, digging it right into the spot he’d stomped on.

“This is just a lil’ marital dispute between a husband and wife.” He informed them, his hand still twisted in your hair, your scalp throbbing at the force of his grip. “Ain’t none of your fuckin’ business.”

“Well.” That second voice again — cool, steady. This time, you could just make him out through the pain blurring your vision, your body aching in too many places to count. He was the closest to you, tall with a thick beard, the barrel of his gun more clear than anything else around you. 

“See, it becomes my business when it comes flying through my fuckin’ bar.”

You saw them then. There were three of them — two men and a lady, all with their guns drawn, aimed right at you. Or rather, your husband at your back, using your beaten body to shield his own like the coward he was. It was the only use he had for you other than to be his punching bag or for your cunt.

“We’ll leave y’all to it then,” He sneered, hauling you with him by the hair as he took a step backwards, refusing to turn his back to them. You gasped, black dots swarming your vision from his brutal grip, the vicious force behind it.

“John—” The woman behind the bar warned, her gun never wavering from you and your husband. Neither did her colleagues, her friends — whoever they were.

“You’re not going anywhere, mate.” That first voice, the one with the thick accent, threatened. A man with tawny skin, browned by the unrelenting sun, his icy blue eyes sharp, wild, and full of fury as they glared menacingly at your husband. “Not until you take your hands off the lass.”

That laugh — that grating, cruel, mocking laugh filled your ear, your body recoiling at the sound, the one that haunted your days and nights, your dreams and nightmares. 

“What, all this for this fuckin’ tramp?” He scoffed, like this was all a big joke for him. That you, your life, your wellbeing was a joke. “I told you, this ain’t your fuckin’ business, you bunch of bottom-feeding l—”

You didn’t hear him arrive, didn’t catch the slow, deliberate tread of his boots as he approached — leisurely, unhurried, like a cat prowling the jungle floor for its prey. A predator stalking its kill.

All you heard was the gunshot. Felt it rattle your skull, chatter your teeth. Your hearing dulled, a high-pitched ringing echoing in your ears.

It took a moment to register the blood spraying across your clothes, soaking into the white linen of your dress — to process the clatter of the gun bouncing off the floor, the vice-like grip on your hair suddenly loosening, then breaking off completely, causing you to stumble forward.

Your husband’s body hit the ground with a heavy thump.

A beat passed, then another before you turned slowly, stiffly, staring down at the lifeless corpse at your feet — the way his mouth hung open in what might’ve been a scream, his thick brows still furrowed in rage. The wound between his eyes oozed darkly, flayed flesh spilling blood that trickled down his nose, his chin; the fragment of the bullet still wedged into his paling, sun-spotted forehead.

As if you were in a trance, your gaze drifted upward, slow and hollow, to the person responsible, the muzzle of his revolver still coiling with smoke.

A man dressed in black from head to toe stepped through the saloon doors, his massive frame devouring the light that once filtered through the entryway. Shadows seemingly clung to him like a second skin, appearing to curl at his sides or shrink in his presence, intimidated.

Atop his head sat a black Cattleman hat with a squared crown, adorned with four silver spikes and a skull-and-crossbones emblem gleaming at the front. Hands covered in black leather gloves, an immaculate three-piece suit stretching across his broad body, twin brown holsters strapped low at his hips. A bolo tie hung at his throat, its gold medallion catching what little light remained, that hadn’t been snuffed out by his hulking frame.

The only splash of color on his entire body came from the red metal mask molded into the shape of a skull with a black cloth draped behind it, concealing the rest of his face  — and whatever beast lay beneath.

“Hell of a shot, Ghost,” The bearded man with the calm, unwavering voice called out as he slid his gun back into the holster at his hip. “Right on time.”

Ghost.

Your blood ran cold. 

You’d heard that name before — only from the rumors, the ones you never quite believed but were hesitant to deny nonetheless. Town gossip spun tall tales all the time, from skinwalkers that stalked the desert to headless horsemen prowling the lonely trails at night.

But they also spoke of the man, the legend, the savage that went by the name Ghost. 

A notorious outlaw, a reaper of souls. A robber, a thief; he went from town to town, stealing and taking what he wanted, whatever he pleased — land, cattle, gold, human lives. 

No one had ever seen his face. 

And there he stood before you, in the flesh, veiled in black. Quiet, menacing, dangerous, and very, very real.

The man, the killer — Ghost — simply nodded, just once, his unflinching gaze pinned on you. You could barely make out the shape of his eyes, hardly visible under the mask, beneath the brim of his hat.

You shuddered beneath his glare, crushed under the weight of his full attention. It was enough to make every nerve in your body scream in danger, frozen in fear.

“You alright, bonnie?” The one with the heavy, unfamiliar accent came to you, his eyes scanning your face with concern. “Christ, lassie. You’re bleeding. Got you good, didn’t he?”

You tore your gaze away from the mammoth of a man sheathed in black to look at him, your throat dry and brittle — you could only nod in response. 

“C’mere, honey.” The woman appeared beside you, her voice soft, her touch light and subtle, but you still flinched at the contact. “Let’s get you fixed up, yeah?”

You nodded again, too shell-shocked to formulate words or sentences or even sounds, your focus back on the body at your feet — your husband’s dead body.

The woman gently wrapped her arms around your shoulders, guiding you out of the room and away from the slaughter. You felt like you were floating, dreaming, as she led you into a hall off the side of the bar, all the way down and into a small kitchen and living space.

“Here.” She ushered you into an old wooden chair, its legs squeaking in protest as she helped ease you down. “I’m gonna grab some things, alright? Don’t move, sweetie.”

You were in a daze, a cloud of stupefied aloofness hanging over your head as you sat there, waiting for her to return. She was back a few moments later, hands full with the promised supplies, setting them down on the table beside you. She dragged another chair over, placing it across from you before sitting down, a small, sympathetic smile on her lips.

“This might hurt, alright?” Her soothing voice gently warned you as she raised a clean, damp rag to your face. You winced as she pressed it against your temple, soaking up the blood there.

“Johnny was right,” She spoke, more to herself than to you as she examined your face, your cuts, your bruises. “He did get you good, huh?”

You didn’t respond, unsure how to.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You told her, your voice sounding so much unlike your own. It was hoarse, low, borderline unrecognizable — a product of the events that had unfolded, unfurled.

“Kate.” She shared her own, tapping a finger against her chest as she dabbed at your face. Pain seared through you at the touch, sharp enough to make your eyes squeeze shut.

“That man,” her voice was lower, hushed as she asked, “He your husband?”

“Was.” Your response, a mere croak; a rasp. “Was my husband.”

The past tense of it — it felt foreign on your tongue, strange and unfamiliar. The first time you acknowledged it, what had happened; the reality of it settling in, slow, steady, and haunting.

He was dead. Your husband was dead.

Kate was quiet, watching you as you processed it, sorted through the events and made sense of it; her movements careful and easy as she continued to clean your face. 

You knew you should’ve felt grief, should’ve been in mourning. Maybe even some sort of remorse or regret.

But, as the numbness began to thaw, all you felt was relief — cool, satisfying relief.

She must’ve seen it too, must’ve noted it in your face, your features. The way your tense shoulders finally relaxed, the way your jaw unclenched slightly; your eyes softening. She let out a low chuckle.

“Not gonna miss him too much, are you?” A question; a rhetorical one — because she already knew the answer. You both did, but you voiced it anyway.

“No.” You managed a faint shake of your head. “I’m not.”

Being cared for was not something you were used to. Not even a little bit.

Your husband — he never had. Not on the day you were promised to him. Not as you walked down the aisle to him dressed in all white. Not when he struck you for the first time that same evening. Not when he’d knocked you unconscious, not when you cried and kicked and screamed as he forced himself on top of you.

He dealt out punishment, pain, agony. He was never gentle, never kind, never loving, never patient. His specialty was torture. Torment. Suffering.

The narrow band of gold that twisted around your finger might as well have been molten iron, a brand seared into your skin, your soul.

Footsteps thudded in the hall, growing louder until a man appeared in the doorway, sticking his head inside the room. You didn’t recognize him — he wasn’t one of the three that you’d encountered in the main saloon. Lean and strong, his skin as warm as dark oak, his eyes the color of thick honey; a tawny Dakota resting on his head.

For a brief moment, you thought that maybe he was the one behind the red skull mask, but you quickly realized that he couldn’t possibly be. This one, this man — he was much smaller in height, in stature; not to mention, he wasn’t donning a three piece suit in the height of summer. 

“Ma’am.” He politely greeted you with a tip of his hat before turning his attention to Kate, all business. “They’re taking care of it, Johnny and Price.”

He didn’t need to say what “it” meant — Kate knew and you knew. “It” could only mean one thing.

And yet, you still felt nothing for him, for the man who’d beaten you senseless every day of your marriage. For the man who’d left you broken, battered, and bruised since the day he’d made you his wife. For the man who’d stolen everything from you — your life, your happiness, your self-respect, your sanity.

No. He deserved the ending he got, if not an even worse fate. 

“Good.” Kate’s eyes shifted over to you for a brief moment before settling back on the stranger. “In the meantime, I need you to fetch some water for a bath. Can you handle that?”

His thick, dark brows furrowed slightly, probably not too thrilled with the lowly task he’d been assigned, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Of course.” 

He tipped his hat to you once more before he left.

Kate smiled warmly at you, her blue eyes flicking over the cut on your temple as she pulled the towel away. The rough cotton rag was heavy, soaked through with your blood.

“I think that’s gonna need a stitch or two.” She frowned, the realization settling over her, the quiet fury stewing, directed towards the man who’d caused it, who’d done this to you.

You shifted in your seat uneasily as she gathered what she needed — a curved suture needle, a length of horsehair, a pair of small metal scissors. Your eyes followed her as she crossed the room, crouching to rummage through a lower wooden cabinet, the varnish worn and peeling away. When she straightened, she held two glasses and a half-empty decanter of dark, amber-colored liquor in her hands, carrying them over to the table.

“Here.” She poured a glass and slid it over to you, the liquid sloshing around in the cup. “You’re gonna need it.”

You didn’t tell her that this wasn’t your first time getting stitches, that you’d been in front of the frontier doctor far too many times to count when it was that your husband decided to take pity on you and take you there. After all, he couldn’t keep beating you if you’d died of infection.

But you took the drink anyway, grateful for it. The doctor you’d seen, a friend of your husband’s, he had never given you so much as a sip to numb the pain, to make it at all easier for you. No, he only used it to sanitize his tools — heaven forbid he waste a drop on you. 

You washed it down, the burn sliding down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest. Kate poured herself a glass, too, knocking it back just as easily. 

“Alright.” She rolled up the sleeves of her light blue denim shirt to her elbows. “Lean back for me, sweetheart.”

You obliged, closing your eyes and sinking lower into the chair as she stood up. You felt her presence hovering beside you, over you as she pressed the same rag — now dampened with some of the alcohol — gently against your temple. You hissed slightly, eyes clenched and teeth gritted together so tightly you wouldn’t have been surprised if any snapped clean off.

“Sorry honey,” She apologized, but her hands, her movements didn’t waver. “Just gotta do a little cleaning first.”

You knew the drill — were quite familiar with the procedure — but the pain still radiated through your face, sharp as a serrated blade, sizzling as badly as a blazing wildfire. The smell of whiskey and the tang of copper filled your nose as you gripped the worn handles of the wooden seat, forcing yourself to stay still, to stay put.

“Deep breath,” She instructed, your body instantly tensing despite the deep inhale you took through your nose, the sound audible. 

The first stitch hurt the worst — it always did. That initial puncture, that first breaking of skin on the edges of the sensitive flesh — it sent a white-hot sting racing through you, lighting up every nerve in your body.

The second stitch was no better. A spike of lightning rippled and sparked across your skin, a blazing trail left behind in its wake. Every hair on your body stood at attention, bristling, awakened and aware of the intrusion. Your fingers curled tightly around the arms of the chair, knuckles nearly white as the thread tugged the frayed edges of your flesh together.

The third stitch nearly knocked the wind right out of you. The liquor you’d downed did little to numb the pain, the ache that seared through you. Your skin felt raw, inflamed; your body trembling as you kept quiet, teeth puncturing and splitting your lip as you held it in, held back a scream, a cry.

Pleading and tears — they had never done you any favors with your husband. If anything, they only made things worse. Fuel to the fire, the rage that burned within him. 

The fourth and final stitch was excruciating, like a nail hammered into your skull; shards of glass embedding deep into your skin, tissue, muscle, and marrow. 

And then, it was over.

Only the throbbing, pulsating ache remained. Your body sagged in relief, chest heaving, your exhale a hurried rush of air. Your hands shook, limbs quivering as tears welled in your eyes — but you didn’t let them fall. Refused to allow it.

“You did good, kid.” Kate commended you, setting the tools back down on the table. She poured you another glass of the liquor, and she chuckled as you accepted it immediately, guzzling it down without a second thought, desperate for anything to dull the sting, the piercing pain left behind.

“Thank you.” You choked out, the words scraped against your throat, voice still sounding like someone else’s. You went to stand, but your legs buckled instantly.

“Woah there.” Kate rushed forward, hands caught under your arms to steady you before you fell on your face. Again.

“I’m alright,” You muttered, even though you felt anything but, as the floor swayed beneath your feet, the room tilting around you.

“You’re not.” Her tone was serious, no-nonsense — she saw right through you, noticed the way your knees threatened to give at any moment. Anyone with a working set of eyes could’ve.

But she’d already helped you so much. You already felt indebted to her, this stranger who had so willingly come to your aid. You had nothing to offer her, nothing to repay her.

“I can’t—” Your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to ignore the tremor in your limbs, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the earsplitting headache thrumming against your skull. “I have to go, I’ve got to be on my way—”

“To where?” She asked, raising a brow as she helped lower you back into your seat. “Not to your husband, that’s for damn’d sure.”

The reminder of him — his lifeless eyes, the bullet buried in his skull; it sent a cold shiver down your spine.

But he couldn’t hurt you. Not anymore.

“You don’t gotta run, honey.” She knelt before you, blue eyes sincere as her hand rested on your thigh. “You’re in no state to do so, either. And there’s no one to chase you any longer, ‘less you got some more skeletons in your closet.”

You shook your head gingerly, as much as you could manage. “No ma’am.”

She patted your leg, her tight-lipped smile telling you she already knew that. “Then let us take care of you, sugar. Somebody finally ought to.”

While you should’ve been grateful, should’ve been relieved to have someone who wanted to help — panic surged through you, stronger than the pulse in your temple, the utter agony rippling through your body. 

“I can’t—I can’t repay you.” Your words came out swiftly, too flustered and overwhelmed to slow down. “I can’t repay you for the kindness you’ve shown me, for the trouble I’ve caused. I —”

“Lemme stop you right there.” She interrupted your rambling, palm raised and facing you as to silence you. “Nobody’s out here looking for payment, alright?” 

She shook her head, thumb caressing your knee as to soothe you, to placate your nerves, your anxieties. “You’re not indebted to us. And you didn’t cause any trouble, honey. That man — he was trouble. Not you. Never you.”

You knew that. Deep down, you knew that. Knew that you weren’t the problem — you never had been. No matter how many times he told you such, struck you across the face or whipped you for your disobedience, your shortfalls. You had tried hard, so hard, to be the perfect wife — to do the dishes, tend to the house and the land, cook meals; all of it, all that was required of you. But nothing you did was enough to quell his rage, to avoid sparking his temper. 

Even still, though, there was a piece of you, a small nagging voice in the back of your mind that told you it was your fault. Told you that you were trouble. A delinquent. A failure. A whore.

The reminder, the accusations — they felt bitter on your tongue, branding you silently with shame. 

Whatever Kate saw when she looked at you, eyes inspecting you from head to toe, was enough to get you on your feet.

“C’mon, sugar. We’ll get you all cleaned up.”

An arm around your waist, yours thrown over her shoulders, she carried your weight, supporting you as she guided you down the hall. You limped, your body too weak, too wounded and bruised for you to walk properly as the adrenaline began to wear off, every bit of your body screaming in protest as you hobbled along, slowing you both down exponentially. Kate was patient, murmuring hushed encouragements under her breath as you reentered the saloon.

It was empty, quiet — the sounds of the outside filtering in; horses neighing somewhere in the distance, intelligible chatter that was too far away to make sense of. 

Your eyes snapped right to the spot where he took his final breath, where his body had crumpled to the ground, where his blood had spilled across the worn planks.

It was still there, his blood — not yet scrubbed away as it seeped into the wooden floors, gathering with the dust and dirt that had been tracked in by patrons and the breeze alike; the only remaining trace of him.

Kate came to a halt, her hold on you remaining as your body sagged against hers. 

“Ghost.”

The sound of his name on her lips wrenched your gaze away from the stain to the man himself, striding back through the swinging doors as they flapped wildly behind him.

Your stomach churned at the sight of him, unease rocking through you like a cresting wave. The size of him, the way he filled the entirety of the threshold, his presence nearly swallowing the room whole — you felt yourself instinctively shrink back, wanting nothing more than to sink into the ground, to disappear under the floorboards. The very sight of him terrified you, urged you to run far far away, as far as you possibly could.

But you couldn’t. Not in your current state.

“Need your help.” Kate’s chin nudged towards the staircase on your left. “Can’t get her up there myself.”

A wave of anxiety crashed over you at the realization of what she was saying, what she was asking, your stomach dropping like a stone in a pond. You swear you saw his jaw flex under the fabric covering the lower half of his face, his gloved hands clenched at his sides. Angry. Annoyed. 

“It’s alright,” You stammered, doing nothing to hide the fear, the apprehension in your voice. You  stumbled backwards, tripping over your own feet as you tried to move out of the way, out of Kate’s grasp. “I’m okay, I —”

Heavy boots thudded on the floor as he approached, shadows rolling over you as your words died on your tongue. He was so tall, too tall — you weren’t even sure if he was human. Couldn’t be sure with the mask in the way.

You let out a yelp as he scooped you right out of Kate’s hold, cradling you against his chest without a word.

You were completely and utterly frozen, your body rigid, stiff as a board. Your brain went haywire, words and sentences and thoughts and feelings unable to be sorted through, digested and understood. One arm hooked underneath your knees, the other braced against your back as he carried you up the steps as if you weighed nothing at all.

The world swayed with each step upwards, each thud against the creaking stairs vibrating through you. You felt the rise and fall of his chest against your side, the heat of him bleeding through the layers of cloth and leather as you clutched at the lapels of his black jacket, an attempt to steady yourself. As if he would somehow drop you, throw you over the carved wooden railing.

Cheeks flaming, your eyes shifted up tentatively, hesitantly — as if meeting his gaze would burn you alive, damn you to hell. But he didn’t look down, didn't even acknowledge you at all, his focus completely straight ahead.

He reached the top of the landing, taking a few long strides down a hall of many doors, the worn, dark wood stretching from the floors to the ceiling. You lurched in his arms as he drove his boot into a door, the crash echoing like a gunshot. It flew inward with a splintering crack, slamming into the nearest wall, its hinges rattling and squeaking in protest.

He took a step inside before he unceremoniously dropped you to your feet. You staggered forwards, clutching the doorframe to keep upright, your legs trembling like a newborn deer.

You heard Kate scoff, slipping past the brute with a shake of her head. “Thank you,” She told him, stepping beside you, a thin blonde brow raised slightly in his direction, largely unimpressed. “Though, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little bit more gentle, now would it?”

He didn’t respond, didn’t say a word. His gaze bore into you, unnerving; unsettling. The tremor that rippled through you had nothing to do with the pain radiating throughout every inch of your body and everything to do with him.

If looks really could kill, you were positive you’d be right beside your husband, six feet under.

Kate all but shoved the behemoth out the door, shooing him away like he wasn’t nearly three times her size, her width, her body mass. You had no idea who she was to these men. Whatever her place amongst them was, whatever title she held, it carried weight; some sort of quiet authority that made them listen. They seemed to obey without question, without complaint, no matter if they liked it or not.

The washroom before you was clean, damp, lit by a single oil lamp flickering from its place on the wall. A metal tub stretched underneath an opened window, a sheer white curtain billowing in the breeze as faint chatter from the outside spilled into the room. The planks beneath your feet were warped, perpetually stained from years of spills, of patrons coming and going, leaving their metaphorical and literal mark.

“Good.” Kate nodded to herself, peering into the full tub as steam curled up from inside, empty tin buckets stacked in the corner. “Kyle can listen.”

She turned to you with a soft smile, eyes kind. “Bath is all yours, honey. There’s a clean towel on the hook and soap on the counter. I’ll bring you up a fresh set of clothes in a bit.” Her head tilted slightly, examining you carefully, cautiously. “You gonna be alright?”

You nodded, your throat suddenly tight and dry, your voice barely a whisper. “I’ll be okay.” You were quiet for a moment before the rest came out without any thought. “I think.”

Sympathy flashed over her face. “Here, sweetheart, lemme help you with your dress.”

You felt no shame, no abashment as she helped lift the white linen over your head, stained and splattered with blood, her fingers moving deftly to unlace the tight strings of your corset. She left you alone after that, standing in your undergarments, her voice lingering with a gentle reminder to call out if you needed anything, the door clicking shut behind her.

It was the first moment you could truly breathe.

No more running. No more fighting. No more begging, pleading for your life. No more beatings, no more bruises.

No more husband.

Staring down at your hand, at the gold ring on your finger, it felt heavier than it ever had before — a shackle, a chain, a handcuff. It was more than just a simple piece of metal to signify what had been your union — it was every bruise, every scar, every welt carved into your skin, every piece of yourself he owned, had claimed for so long.

You slipped it off your finger, setting it down on the porcelain sink counter. 

You’d never felt more free in your life.

Shedding the rest of your layers, you let them pool at your feet before dipping a toe into the tub, the water still warm and inviting, calling out to you like a siren’s song. You gingerly stepped the rest of the way in, wincing as you lowered yourself down and slipped under the surface, the liquid splashing against the sides.

A bath had never felt so good, so soothing and reposeful, as it washed away his sins, his abuses, his cruel, bitter words. They rinsed off your skin, scrubbed away by the lye soap and the soft cloth, the lavender and lilac aroma swirling around you protectively, warding off the scent of blood and gunpowder and liquor now long gone.

You stayed in there for awhile, your eyes closed, head rested against the cool metal surface until your fingers pruned and the water grew cold, darkened with the remnants of your unholy baptism. 

Kate had come back, knuckles gently rapping against the door as if not to startle you, a skittish creature stirring from their months-long hibernation. She left a pile of clothes on the counter for you and told you to take your time, however long you wanted, needed.

Finally, the water having long since cooled, you pushed yourself up with a shiver, your nipples peaked and your skin pebbling as the air encircled you, the chill creeping into your bones. Drops trickled down your skin, streaking through the last bits of dirt and dust. Your body quivering, you  carefully stepped out, your feet landing unsteadily on the wood floor — but you didn’t fall, didn’t topple to the ground. Surprisingly, not this time.

The room was quiet, nothing but the faint drip of water, your breathing, the flicker of the lamp, and the indistinct noises drifting in from the outside. You wrapped the towel around your body, your gaze drifting to the mirror nailed above the washbasin, its once clear surface clouded with grim that wouldn’t budge, cracked and splintered in the corners.

You barely recognized the women who stared back at you, wide-eyed and dumbstruck. Her hair was tangled, her face bruised and bloodied, lips split and inflamed, eye swelling up angrily. She looked so much like you, yet nothing at all. She wore your face, had your eyes — but she wasn’t you. She couldn’t be.

You couldn’t stomach it, couldn’t face her any longer. Turning away, you redressed in silence — pantalets, stockings, chemise; each layer a small shield between you and that woman in the mirror. You pulled the light blue cotton dress over your head with a pained groan at the effort, the fabric settling over you, swishing around your ankles, your worn leather boots. 

Kate wasn’t far when you shuffled out, seemingly waiting for you. Arms around your waist and shoulders for support, she led you down the hall, using a rusted key to unlock one of the many doors. A plain bedroom lay behind it — black iron frame, shoddy mattress, faded patterned quilt, dusty dresser in the corner, yellowed lamp on the nightstand.

Your own slice of heaven, euphoria. Peace and paradise welcoming you with open arms.

“Rest up,” She instructed you, less of a suggestion and more of a demand. “You need it, honey, and you’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.”

And you were not going to argue with that. Kicking your boots back off, you slid under the covers, your body twisting and turning to find a spot that didn’t make you grimace — a task that was much harder than you naively anticipated, as if you hadn’t had many nights like this before. Finally, though, you managed to drift off, tumbling into a restful sleep, dreaming of handsome knights and princesses in towers, waiting to be saved, to be loved, to be treasured at last.

You woke as the sun painted oranges, reds, and golds across the sky, sinking behind the jagged peaks on the horizon. The faint sound of music, laughter, and the distinct clink of glasses filtered in from behind the door, still closed but with a silver serving tray resting just inside of it.

You felt the empty ache in your stomach then, heard the hungry growl that filled the room. Bare feet padded across the floor, the old boards creaking beneath your weight as you crouched down. Steam rose up as you lifted the lid, the scent of fresh bread and salted meat drawing another growl from your stomach.

A simple meal, but one of the most delicious ones you’d ever had, ever tasted. You chowed down every bite greedily, your plate and your fingers licked clean. 

Your hunger now satiated, you felt the gratitude seep under your skin, the kindness and care you’d been shown. The strangers who had saved you, who lent you a hand when they could have easily turned you away, just as the rest of the townsfolk had. 

No one had ever shown you that decency before, that hospitality.

But while you were thankful beyond belief, fear began to weave its way in, dread winding itself around your brain, your heart, your good sense. It didn’t matter what had been said, what you had been told.

You were afraid to face them.

It was a different kind of fear than you’d experienced before, different than the kind you were used to. The fear your husband had instilled within you was familiar, a tragic fate with which you were resigned to.

You expected it. Anticipated it. It was a reality you had never believed you would truly escape from. Your body too familiar with the motions, the song and the dance that awaited you every day, every night. Dawn til dusk.

This kind, though…this was a kind you weren’t used to, weren’t acquainted with. It was both hot and cold, sharp and dull. It had no shape, no pattern. It was unpredictable, uncertain. You couldn’t brace yourself for the brunt of it when you had no idea when it would strike, when to expect the inevitable impact.

They were strangers. Unknowns. They weren’t family, weren’t friends.

And maybe you were better off because they were neither of those things. None had helped you before, had come to your aid when you desperately sought a way out, an escape from the hell you’d been subjected to, lived in for months, years. These strangers — they did. Without question, without hesitation.

But you still couldn’t shake that feeling, the pit that had formed in your stomach.

You thought about staying in bed, hiding out in the room, if only to delay what you were certain was coming. 

But there was nowhere to run. 

The window was too high to climb from, and in your current state, you had no business even trying. Maybe, just maybe, you could disguise yourself amongst the crowd you heard downstairs and could slip out into the night without a trace.

But then where would you go? Back home, to the place that had held all your suffering, where the walls had witnessed the ugliest, the most brutal parts of you? The house where the deed bore only his name?

And if you did…would his friends come for you? Would the sheriff? Would they hunt you down for revenge, demanding retribution for his death?

No. You couldn’t stomach it, the thought of returning to your marital abode. The thought of it was suffocating, paralyzing — even in death he haunted you, cursed you with the memories of his cruelty, so deeply embedded into your skin, your heart, your soul, your mind.

And his friends? His circle? He had been well-connected, a businessman with ties in every corner of town. News of his death — his murder — would spread like wildfire, if it hadn’t already. It was only a matter of time before they found out, suspected you. Came for you.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine. What would you do then? Would you run? Would you hide? Would you turn yourself in?

You hadn't pulled the trigger, but didn't you, in a way? You signed, sealed, and delivered his death warrant, dropping it right on the reaper of hell and his associates's very doorstep. It didn’t matter if you’d been aware of it or not, had known whose bar you’d stumbled into — the result was all the same. 

You were at a crossroads, but no route felt right, felt complete, felt like the path worth taking. You were stuck, pinned between realities where none felt safe, dependable, acceptable. 

What the hell were you supposed to do now?

There was one thing you needed then, one thing that you could stomach, could clearly decide upon.

You needed a fucking drink.

The music hit you like a brick wall the moment you opened the door, the notes of a ragtime melody clashing with the drunken laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the off-key croon of patrons singing along. The saloon downstairs was rowdy, brimming with noise — with life. It was the evening watering hole, the main stop in town once the sun set and the stars danced in the sky, where rules didn’t apply, where the full extent of the law didn't quite reach. Debauchery, depravity. Deals made under the cover of low light and tobacco smoke.

And right now, it was just the kind of place you needed to be.

You had expected the stares, the wide eyes, the whispering. You looked like hell, like you had just crawled out from the very depths of the fiery inferno. Bruised, battered; stitches adorning your temple, your eye swelled shut, purplish-yellow marks dotting your skin, your arms.

It didn’t mean you liked it, though, or were okay with it. The scrutiny, the gawking, the barely murmured gossiping like you weren’t in the same room, weren't within earshot.

But you held your head high, your spine straight, and your shoulders squared as you staggered through the bar, doing your best to disguise the limp you still sported, that the bath and a good rest hadn’t quite gotten rid of.

He couldn’t hurt you. He couldn’t hurt you. Not anymore. Not anymore.

The rubbernecking didn’t stop, didn’t cease, as you shuffled towards the bar, your confidence faltering with each step but your chin still held up, as much as you could muster.

Two of the men from earlier were there, — Johnny and Kyle, you'd remembered hearing — their heads turning in your direction as you approached.

“There she is.” Johnny, the one with the strange, thick accent, beamed, lifting his glass bottle to you in a toast. “Our little fighter.”

“This seat taken?” You asked, pointing towards the empty spot between them. Both men shook their heads.

“Yours now,” Kyle replied, patting the cracked leather seat beside him. You tried to hide your grimace as you slid onto the empty stool, the eyes on your back of your head burning even hotter as you joined them, associated with them by choice.

“Sweet Jesus.” Johnny whistled now that you were closer, blue eyes scrutinizing your face with a squint, a slight wrinkle of his nose. “You look like hell, darlin’.”

Kyle scoffed in amusement, shaking his head. “Don’t listen to him, doll.” He patted your hand reassuringly. “He’s never quite gotten a hold of what civilized people like to call manners.”

But you weren’t bothered by the remark — it was true, you knew it. Knew there was no sense in denying it.

“S’alright.” You managed a small smile, fingers drumming anxiously against the wooden bar-top, trying your best not to have your head on a swivel, to avoid the stares pinning you from all sides.

Kyle’s eyes dipped, following the small, restless twitch of your hands. The corners of his mouth curved, almost amused, as he raised two fingers in a silent signal to the bartender, a woman you’d never seen before. Not Kate.

“So, Little Fawn,” He spoke, turning his body towards you. “You from around here?”

Your brows knit together, too caught on the moniker to answer his question. “Little Fawn?”

He simply smiled in lieu of an explanation, chin nudging in Johnny’s direction. 

“Aye, that was all me.” The man grinned with a full set of teeth, a gold tooth glinting in the dim lighting. “Came up with it myself.”

An uncapped bottle of beer slid across the bar toward you before you could ask any further questions about that. 

Alarm jolted through you then, your heart rate quickening as your eyes locked on the drink. You couldn’t pay for it, had nothing on you to shell out. You didn’t dare touch it  — afraid it might burn you if you did. Your mouth opened, ready to refuse, to insist it was a mistake, even as your throat, your body ached with how badly you wanted it. Needed it.

“It’s alright, Fawn,” Kyle assured you, and your head snapped toward him at the sound of your new name, your only one as far as they were concerned. “It’s on the house.”

Even though you knew it was dangerous, knew it was a slippery slope you were already headed down, your fingers curled around it, accepting it anyways.

“I can’t keep taking things from you all,” You murmured, staring down at the pale yellow ale in your hands. “It’s—you’ve all done too much.”

Johnny snorted loudly, disapprovingly. “Lassie, we haven’t done enough. Not after the hell tha’ fuckin’ bastard put ya through.” He shook his head, taking a long sip from his bottle. “Ghost just got to ‘im first, that’s all.”

The mere mention of him, the legend himself, made you shudder — hopefully, the men beside you didn’t notice. 

“You’re safe here,” Kyle told you, brown eyes warm and comforting, a safety net you desperately wanted to cling to despite your hestitation. “He can’t get to you anymore.”

You wanted to believe him like you wanted to believe Kate, wanted to put all your trust in the palms of his calloused hands. But you knew better. You weren’t naive, weren't stupid, no matter how much that voice in the back of your head tried to convince you as such. You stayed with that monster for too long after all, much longer than you ever should’ve. You should’ve known he would never change, that he would never stop hurting you.

But in the end, you’d gotten away, hadn't you?

Still, the safety, the security that you were now promised — you weren’t so sure, weren’t so easily persuaded. All your life, you’d craved it, prayed for the reckoning to come. For your guardian angel, your knight in shining armor to save you, to free you from the tower, to whisk you away from all of it.

But now that you had a taste, you weren’t so sure that it was real, that it was nothing more than a facade. A sham.

You were indebted to them, and you damn well knew it.

A light poke against your cheek. “Fawn.”

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. “Hmm?”

The men exchanged an amused look. “I asked again where you’re from.” Kyle bit the inside of his cheek, clearly trying to contain his laughter for your sake. “You never answered from before.”

“Oh.” You looked down at your hands, your palms scratched and scraped up, the skin much softer, much less angry after your bath. “Um, yes. I’m from here. I, uh, live—lived in a house just outside of town.”

“With him?” Johnny asked with a raised brow, his voice lower, poorly biting back his displeasure, his irritation at the idea of the arrangement.

You nodded, your skin prickling at the tainted memories that filled your head at the mere mention of him. “Yes.”

“Hm.” He sat back against the stool, fingers stretching, flexing around his bottle like he imagined it was his neck, eyes searching your face. “Kids?”

You shook your head vehemently. “No.”

Not for a lack of trying, but you left that part unspoken, unsaid. He’d always wanted them, forced you to try for them on many occasions, even when the idea of bearing his heir made you sick. 

But it never took. Never came to fruition, to actuality. Perhaps it was the universe’s way, God’s plan — whomever was in charge up there — of telling you it wasn’t meant to be. A sign, an omen. One less thing to tie you to him, one less thing he could sic his anger, his wrath upon.

“Good.” Johnny nodded, pleased with your answer, as if he had been thinking the same as you. “Better tha’ way, yeah?”

You were quiet as you inclined your head in agreement, raising the bottle to your lips and taking a big gulp, the bitterness burning a path down your throat.

“So.” Kyle’s voice cut through the commotion around you, the lull in your conversation, drawing your gaze to him. He leaned an elbow on the bar, eyes steady, trained on you. “What happens now?”

“Now?”

“Now.” He confirmed with a nod. “You’re free of him. What’s next?”

His question threw you off. Abruptly halted your racing thoughts. You had never let yourself consider such a thing before, never felt like you’d ever have the possibility of a next chapter — a world without him. Your life had consisted of two parts — before becoming his wife and after. You’d never truly believed there would be a third period, a next phase. Not one you’d be alive for, anyway.

But the way he asked it, posed it like it was so casual, natural — the obvious next step for you. As if you’d merely shaken the dust off your boots after a long ride, swatted away a stray gnat from your shoulder. 

“Wow.” Kyle leaned back, shaking his head, like he couldn’t quite believe it — your reaction. “You’ve really never thought about this before, have you?”

You didn’t need to answer them, to speak the truth out loud. They already knew. It was written all over your face for anyone to read, like weathered ink on a WANTED poster.

Johnny let out a low, disgruntled noise. “Tha’s a damn shame, lass. A real fuckin’ shame.”

The words didn’t just land — they lingered, settling in the very pit of your stomach.

Because it was. It truly, wholeheartedly was a shame.

This was never supposed to be your life, your reality. Ever since you were a little girl, darting barefoot along the fence lines, skirts catching on wild prairie grass, you’d dreamed of your prince, your one true love. The man you’d ride off into the sunset with — arms wrapped snug around his waist, your chin resting on his shoulder, hair ruffling in the warm breeze. 

Instead, you’d ridden straight into the eye of a storm, right into the arms of a man who wasn’t a prince at all, but a jailer, a warden, a tyrant. A villain in your story.

How had you ended up here, so far away from that little girl’s hopes, her dreams?

When had it all changed? When had the universe decided to deal you the cards of such a cruel fate? 

Was this always what your life had been destined to become?

Your heart ached for that little girl, mourned her fate — your fate.

A single tear slid down your cheek uncontrollably, unconsciously.

Kyle and Johnny noticed it straight away; saw the heartbreak, the grief etched deep into your face. They exchanged a look, one charged full of empathy and simmering fury. Kyle moved closer to you, opening his mouth to say something — to comfort you, to offer some solace; some words of encouragement, even — when a loud bang cracked through the room, the saloon doors shaking as they were barged through, thrown wide open.

“Where is she?” 

Every single head turned, all attention snapping towards the booming voice, the sudden intruder. The fiddler’s bow stilled mid-air, the weathered guitar’s chords cut short, and the easygoing sing-song of the crowd fell quiet as the room came to a complete standstill.

You knew that voice. Felt the familiarity carved into your bones, your soul, your childhood memories.

“Where the hell is my daughter?”

It was like they knew, Johnny and Kyle. Knew without a word, without sparing you a glance for confirmation. They slowly rose to their feet, hands hovering over the weapons holstered at their hips, slotting themselves protectively between you and the man who’d burst in, his two cronies close behind — all ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

“The fuck you want, old geezer?” Johnny barked, fingers twitching near his triggers, muscles coiled like springs — ready to pounce, ready to strike, ready to fire. Kyle was the same. “‘Cause if you’re looking for trouble, best not do so here.”

You were hidden behind them, masked in their shadows. Flecks of dust floated in the stuffy evening air, trembling with the unspoken warnings, unrest teetering unsteadily on the horizon. Every set of eyes in the room darted between the trespassers and the two cowboys, the subtle scraping of boots and shifting of chairs the only other sounds in the room. 

The man laughed derisively, that rough sound so distinct, so recognizable.

“You think you scare me, little boy? Really think I’d let you get in my way?”

You saw the way Johnny tensed, bristling at the mockery, the unconcealed threat. Fighting words for him, his temper razor-thin in the face of foe. He took a menacing step forward, but Kyle’s hand gripped his shoulder, holding him back.

Unlike Johnny, he was calm yet alert, calculating every breath, every ministration.

“This ain’t the way you wanna go about it, lad.” His voice was even, restrained; each letter, each syllable dripping with caution. “And this ain’t the place to barge in like that, guns blazing.”

“You think I care ‘bout any of your damn’d rules? Your little saloon etiquette?” The man jeered, his step forward on the wooden planks audible, his face unreadable, obscured from the gap between their bodies — a face you knew like the back of your hand, had watched wrinkle and droop as the years passed. “I’m here for my goddamn daughter.”

Johnny shifted slightly, body subtly angling to conceal you even further. 

“We don’t know who or where your fuckin’ daughter is,” He snarled. “Now get the fuck out of here, you rusty fuckin' trap.”

You could feel the atmosphere shift, the room tightening with tension and anticipation, as if a bullet could fly at any second — blood ready to be spilled, twice in one day.

You couldn’t stomach it, couldn’t be the cause of it. Not again. Not this time. 

The grate of your stool against the floor was sharp, as deafening as the crack of a whip as you stood, knees trembling slightly, hands quivering so much so that you balled them into fists at your side. The wrought iron legs shrieked against the wood, slicing through the room’s tenuous silence, every set of eyes on you.

“Daddy?”

His eyes — the same shape as yours, same color, too — locked onto you, just barely peeking over Kyle and Johnny’s shoulders. 

“Birdie.” 

The nickname landed like a ghost from another life, another existence and person entirely — the name he’d bestowed upon you when you were no taller than his knee, small enough to fit into the crook of his arm. The two men eased apart to expose you, just enough for him to capture a glimpse, but their bodies remained taut, rigid; a protective, living and breathing barricade between you and the man you’d once called your father.

“What are you doing here?” You stepped forward, but neither cowboy moved away, their hands still poised over the iron at their hips. Not yet, not while the air still thrummed like a rattler’s tail, ready to strike the moment someone so much as twitched.

The utterance of your husband’s name on his lips felt like a backhand, hot and stinging on your cheek — something you’d felt every night of your marriage.

“Heard they had him strung up in the middle of town.” Your father’s voice was as stiff as the set of his shoulders, eyes narrowed and blazing with fury as they locked onto the men at your side. “Naked as the day he was born, lead buried right between the eyes. Had crows tearing at him like he’d already been rotting.”

Your eyes widened, astonishment blooming in your chest, a knot of realization twisting deep in your gut and settling in your mind.

Kyle had informed Kate that they had taken care of it — of him. You’d been there when he said it, and you’d assumed they’d dumped his body somewhere hidden, secret; a place nobody would ever find him. Assumed they’d erased every trace of the murder, the blood spilled — anything to bury what they’d done, their culpability in it. 

Never had you imagined this — such a brazen display, a cold-blooded staging of his corpse.

And yet, you couldn’t deny the fierce satisfaction burning low inside you.

“News travels awful fast these days,” Johnny quipped, voice oozing with mock innocence laced with accusation, with responsibility.

He didn’t just toss the truth out  — he boldly shoved it in their faces, daring them to flinch, to challenge him, Kyle. Not a shred of subtlety nor a denial of blameworthiness.

No. He wanted them to know — your father, his buddies, the patrons in the bar — that they’d done it, that the group of them were responsible for your husband’s death, that his blood was on their hands. And that his wife, his widow, stood beside them anyway.

Your father’s jaw set, tightening with outrage; falling victim to the flagrant provocation, the taunt, the clear goading. 

“They did that to you too, didn’t they, Birdie?” He stormed forward, boots pounding the floor, the two men flanking you tightening their grip on their weapons instantaneously. “They beat you down like some wild animal, didn’t they?”

“The fuck you think we are?” Johnny snapped, blatantly offended by the accusation, body stiffening like he’d just been clobbered upside the head, smacked across the face. 

“No.” You were quick to deny it, to clear their name. After all they’d done for you, to help you, you wouldn’t let the assertion, the doubt linger. “No, they didn’t lay a finger on me, daddy.” 

“Then who the hell did it, hmm?” He was furious, barely restrained — just waiting for the moment, the word, the excuse to attack, to fire upon the men. “Who the hell laid a hand on you? Beat you to a bloody fuckin’ pulp?”

You swallowed thickly, your throat rough like sandpaper, your voice low, quiet. “You know who.”

Your father’s frown carved deeper lines into his face, recognition dawning in his eyes yet denial on his tongue. “Don’t you go spreading lies now, Birdie. You know better than to spit on the dead.”

Anger simmered in your gut, drowning out the embarrassment, the sheepishness of having the crowd hang onto your every word; having become their clear entertainment for the night. 

“You and I both know it’s the truth.” You heard the edge in your tone, your frustration reaching near its boiling point. You were at your wits end, so damn tired of this twisted game of truths and lies, life and death. “That it’s been the truth since the day you gave me away.”

“Lies.” The word spat from your father’s mouth, his face twisting with fury, every syllable laced in venom as he stalked forward. “You’re spewing damn lies, Birdie — covering for these men, these hoodlums!” He swung toward the crowd, arms flaring wide in accusation. “These criminals! These outlaws!”

Kyle’s hand landed on your shoulder, tugging you behind him, inserting himself between you and your father before he got too close.

“Back the fuck up, lad. Now.”

That scornful laugh rumbled from his chest, somehow finding amusement in the warning, the last call.

“I’m not going anywhere, lad.” The words curled with a mocking intonation, his tone morphing into a crude imitation of Kyle's foreign accent.

“She’s coming with me.”

Your heart raced at his words, pounded wildly in your chest, slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break free from its skeletal cage. Johnny beat you to it, voicing the very words, the very thoughts that raced through your brain.

“Like hell.” Johnny scoffed, shifting to plant himself between you and your father. “She ain’t going anywhere wit' you.”

“The hell she ain’t.” Your father’s gaze pinned you, catching only the sliver of your face above the men’s broad shoulders. “Birdie. We’re leaving.”

“Try it.” Kyle threatened, his fingers coiled around the butt of his revolver, daring him to make another move. “See what fuckin’ happens.”

“You talk like you own her. You don’t.” Your father sneered, eyes never once straying from you, threatening you wordlessly, daring you to defy him any further. Like you had no choice, that this was nothing more than a game, a power struggle — that you were just a pawn in the men’s pissing contest. That you were a child once more, property of the man who’d helped give you life yet hadn’t hesitated to hand you over to the highest bidder.

Gold for a punching bag. A pet.

His own daughter.

“Oh yeah?” Johnny challenged, taking a step forward, hand curled around the Colt’s grip. “And you think you do, buddy?”

“Birdie.” Eyes narrowed, focused solely on you, burning with impatience, with fury. “Now.”

The deafening crack of a gunshot split through the air like a lightning strike, splintering the standoff in an instant. Screams rippled through the saloon, panic surging in every direction, patrons diving for cover or bolting for the exit, eyes darting wildly to find the source, to see who’d been first to pull the trigger.

Yet none of the men — neither those shielding you nor those staring you down — had fired, their guns still resting in their holsters, untouched, unmoved.

“She ain’t going anywhere.”

It was a voice you didn’t recognize, hadn’t heard before. Unfathomably low, deep, rich — a rough scrape against your skin, your ears, your senses; a rumble in your gut, in your soul; a dull thrum stirring between your legs at the very sound. It carried the same foreign tone, the unfamiliar lilt of the other cowboys you’d come to know, the hallmark of a world far from here. It wasn’t the smooth drawl of a gentleman or the teasing cadence of a rancher — it was raw, rumbling; sharp and smoke-filled.

And there he stood. 

The man in black, the reaper of souls, the angel of death — the red mask glinting under the warm candlelight glow of the swinging chandelier hanging above.

The fear was palpable, tangible — you could taste it on your tongue, squeeze it between your fingertips. Not a soul in the dimly lit bar failed to recognize his authority, his command; dared to challenge it, to defy him. No one had that much of a death wish — not even your father.

“She’s not yours.” The whirl of his spurs, the commanding thud of his boots echoing through the tense quiet, a hush having settled over the saloon; heavy breaths mingling together nervously in anticipation, in apprehension. “She ain’t yours to claim.”

The spin of the chamber, the click of the hammer — he raised his revolver, pointing it right at your father, his eyes widening with fear.

“She's mine.”

Another gunshot, another ear-splitting bang resounded through the space, your hands flying to cover your ears as alarmed shouts and panicked cries broke out around you. You were almost afraid to look, to see the damage, the certain death — but he changed its path, altered its route at the last moment, the bullet having barely missed your father’s head, the lead now entombed inside the near wall.

Your limbs trembled, heart pounding in your chest, hands shaking at your sides. Smoke curled through the room, the sharp tang of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air.

Your father — you believed he’d loved you once, cherished you as his own when you were young, when you were still naive and foolish. When you hadn’t been worth your weight in gold, when your life hadn’t been something to trade, to profit off of. It hadn’t mattered to him whether you were truly happy, whether you were truly safe or cared for. No, he’d been in denial, convinced and deluded himself into believing that the situation, the transaction, was what was best for you, for your family, for him. For the farm, the business.

He’d ignored the rumors, your cries for help, your pleas to take you back home, to help you get away from the man you’d married at his behest. He’d slammed the door in your face that first night when you crawled back with bruises littering your skin, tears streaming down your face, even when your mother begged and pleaded with him to let you in.

It was greed that had won out in the end, that had superseded his need to protect you. One of his own.

And when news arrived that your husband was dead, that he’d been killed violently, brutally — it only made sense that you return back to him. Not to care for you but to exert his dominion over you, to find a use for you that would again serve him.

That was all it had ever been about — profit, power, control.

And right now, he held none of those things.

He was a heartless, avaricious man, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew when he’d lost, when he was sure to fall flat on his face. And you — you were not worth the struggle, the fight, the pain. 

After all, he had other daughters, other children.

He retreated with his tail between his legs, barely sparing you a glance as he and his cronies scattered, disappearing into the night — as if you were nothing but a stranger, a nobody to him.

Soon, the life and livelihood returned inside the saloon, the music and the laughter, the drinking, the dancing, the card games all resuming — the scuffle, the standoff all but forgotten.

But you hadn’t. You couldn’t. 

His words settled deep inside of you, heavy as a lead weight, pressing down on your heart and conscience like a stone you couldn’t shift.

“She's mine.”

“She’s mine.”

“She’s mine.” 

“She’s mine.”

The words, his voice — it clanged through every corner of your brain, replaying through your mind on an endless, merciless loop. 

You couldn’t sleep. Not even a wink. You tossed and turned, wincing when your weight pressed into your bruised ribs. Flipping to the other side was no better, provided no more relief — a sharp, stabbing pain shot through your temple, the fresh stitches there a brutal reminder of the hell your body had faced. 

But it wasn’t the pain that kept you up. Not really. No, it was his declaration, his blatant staking of claim. 

His calling in on the debt you owed. 

You’d known it was coming. One way or another, the hand was bound to be dealt, the cards bound to be played.

You’d known that their services, their actions — it was never meant to be free. Nothing out here ever was. Not a bullet, not a favor, not a good deed. Everything had a price, and sooner or later, the debt always came due, the collector always came knocking. 

They’d told you otherwise, Kate and Kyle. Tried to convince you that wasn’t true, that you were safe. That nobody was looking for repayment, for compensation.

You’d known better. You’d known it was all a lie, a myth — a string of sweet words to hide the bitter truth, the twisted reality. You’d been burned one too many times, hurt by too many people you’d once cared about to believe anything they’d said, promised and assured.

Because after all, you were his now, weren’t you? He’d made that abundantly, distressingly clear.

This was your life; your cruel, pitiful truth — your existence nothing more than a card in the deck, traded from one hand to the next, passed around like property from man to man, keeper to keeper.

Wasn’t it just time you’d accepted it? Made peace with it? That you were nothing more than mere chattel?

It was a horrifying and vile thought — a heavy weight settled in your stomach, twisting and churning until you were sure you were going to puke. You lurched forward, your body aching, screaming in protest as you doubled over, dry heaving over the edge of the bed, gagging on nothing but dread.

“She’s mine.”

“She’s mine.”

“She’s mine.”

You stayed curled up like that for hours, long after the saloon had emptied and quieted down, your body bone-tired but your mind still buzzing like a hive.

You heard it then — the shuffle of boots, the creak of floorboards, a sign of life beginning to stir in the building. Your eyes squeezed shut, choking down the quiet tears as you willed yourself to steady, to calm, to collect your bearings.

It was only a matter of time before the heavy footsteps grew louder, grew closer, pausing right outside your door before it slowly creaked open, warm candlelight spilling in from the hall. Your back stayed turned and you remained still, pretending like you hadn’t heard it, that you were asleep; relishing in those last few moments of your fleeting freedom, your brief solitude.

“Hey there, sunshine,” A familiar voice whispered, a woman’s — Kate’s. Her hand rested lightly on your arm, the mattress dipping as she sat down beside you. “You sleep ok?”

You turned slightly, peeking out of one eye to look at her as she smiled down at you. 

You shook your head.

She chuckled softly, the sound lacking conviction — like that was exactly what she expected but hadn’t wanted to hear. “Yeah, I thought as much.”

It was still early — ungodly so. The sky was dark, the sun still buried beneath streaks of purple and blue, stars still blinking faintly overhead. The town was quiet, hushed and heavy with sleep, its people clinging to the last scraps of rest before the roosters crowed and the church bells called for them to rise.

You wondered why she was awake, what she was doing in here.

“What’s going on?” 

You couldn’t help but voice it, the tension lingering in the air, unspoken and unsaid. No more games, no more beating around the bush — you couldn’t take any more of it, couldn’t stomach it. You needed her to be honest with you.

She sighed, the hand that had been resting on your arm now dragging through her tousled locks. 

“Can’t get anything past you, huh?”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t bring yourself to.

Her eyes roamed over your face, lips curving faintly as her stare stayed flat, unreadable.

“Pretty thing,” She murmured, almost like she was thinking aloud, her fingers gently brushing a stray hair out of your face. “But no fool.”

You stared back at her, blinking slowly, as if the shadows in the room were deceiving you — that it wasn’t Kate but someone else trying to deceive you, wearing the darkness like a cloak, luring you into a trap, into a false sense of comfort. 

“It’s time for us to skip town.” She told you — the truth, the real reason for her nighttime visit falling from her lips. “I believe we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

Reminders of the night before, just hours earlier, seeped in, the memories replaying through your mind.

The stares, the whispers, the threats. The gunshots. Your father. Kyle, Johnny. Ghost.

You knew word would spread like wildfire, interwoven with the tale of your husband’s fate: whispers of the notorious Ghost, you — the widowed woman he’d claimed, and the bullets he’d fired at your father in warning — a threat, a promise etched in iron, buried in the wooden walls.

The sheriff was bound to hear of it — the chaos the infamous outlaw had stirred in the saloon, in his town. It was only a matter of time before he came storming through those swinging doors, hungry for justice and hellbent on taking him and all his comrades in. 

And now, you were considered one of them. Ghost had made sure of it.

“I’ve got to take care of some business here,” Kate continued, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with a loose string on the edge of her blouse. “John and I will be staying behind for a bit, but you — you’ll be off with the others.”

Your heart thudded at that, its pace quickening at her words, at the unsettling thought of what she was telling you.

“You’re not coming?” You sat upright, the thin, rumpled sheets slipping down and pooling around your waist, the chilly morning air pebbling the exposed flesh of your arms. 

She shook her head. “Not yet, peach. We’ll be joining you soon.” She offered you a small smile, eyes shining with empathy, with understanding. “I know this ain’t ideal, but it’s best for you to get out of here before trouble comes knocking again.”

And it would. It always did. Trouble always found its way back to you, to wreck havoc on your life, winding itself tightly around your livelihood, suffocating you. It fed off of your very existence, raining down hell like a relentless storm.

Because even if you wanted to stay, you knew it would come back — you wouldn’t be able to escape it. You’d be arrested, thrown into the slammer for your association with such notorious criminals, the brutal killers of your husband. It wouldn’t matter that they — that Ghost — had saved you from your abuser. The law didn’t care for truth, only order. Justice was just a word they twisted, bent to their liking. 

With your husband’s connections, his long-standing friendship with the sheriff, and the reputation that followed the band of outlaws — you were all as good as dead. A bounty would hang high over their heads and yours now, too.

“You’ll be safe with them.” Kate’s hand came back to rest on your thigh, giving it a squeeze — an attempt to reassure you, to comfort you. “They’ll look after you.” She met your eyes with nothing but sincerity, sensing your hesitancy, your skepticism.

“You have my word.”

But what good was her word? You didn’t know her, didn’t know them. Every word, every vow they’d made to you thus far had been a farce, hadn’t it? 

You weren’t free — you were his. Ghost’s. None of them refuted it, came to defend your honor against him when he’d so boldly staked his claim. His word was gospel, his decisions law.

And safety? You doubted that. Not just because of the man in the mask, but because trouble didn’t just follow you, didn’t just follow them. They created it, caused it. Relished in it. It followed them like a shadow — their very way of life.

But what choice did you have?

None. Like always, you had none.

“I brought up your dress.” Kate’s voice drifted through the haze of your thoughts, tugging you out of your doubts, your cynicism. “Gave it a good scrub last night. Got the stains right out.”

The stains being blood. Your husband’s blood. Ever since it had spilled, had sprayed over the white fabric of your clothes, nothing had been the same.

It was just yesterday afternoon, yet it felt like days ago.

“You get yourself together.” She gave your leg one last pat before she stood, rising from the bed. “I’ll come by in a bit.”

She slipped back out, the light from the hall trickling in before it disappeared behind the wooden door. You sat there for a moment, completely and utterly still. Outside, the crickets chirped and sang, an owl hooted from its perch amongst the rooftops. Somewhere nearby, a loose sign groaned on its chain, creaking loudly as it swung back and forth in the gentle breeze. 

In a matter of hours, life as you knew it had completely crumbled, had come crashing down. Some of it was for the better — some of it was for the worst.

Your husband — he was the devil you knew. The devil you were well acquainted with, the devil whose face and fists you’d memorized. These people, this group of strangers, criminals — they were the devil you didn’t.

They seemed nice, kind — Johnny, Kyle, Kate, and John Price. Helpful. Reasonable. Decent enough. Their morals somewhat in tact, as far as you could tell.

But Ghost? Just the thought of him made you shiver, dread crawling up your spine at the idea of being too near, too alone.

He wasn’t a devil. He was the devil himself.

You slipped out from under the covers, legs swinging over the bed and dropping to the floor. The boards were rough under your bare feet, cold to the touch as you rose, your body moving on instinct before your mind could catch up. 

Sure enough, the dress was there — clean and folded neatly, resting on the dusty old dresser pushed against the wall. The moon served as your only source of light as you redressed, slipping the familiar white fabric over your head, letting it settle over your body, the undergarments you’d slept in. You sat back on the bed as you pulled on your stockings, shoving your feet back into the worn boots before you crept out of the room, tiptoeing down the hall to the washroom. Thankfully, it was empty. 

You stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you. The single oil lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows against the wall. You splashed cold water on your face, the sharp bite washing away the last of your sleepiness and stinging against your temple.

There was a hairbrush on the counter, seemingly left for you. You were grateful, your locks tousled and tangled from all your tossing and turning. The bristles were soft but dutiful as you combed through the knotted strands, your reflection peering back at you through the cracked, dirty surface of the mirror.

The woman before you was still a stranger. She bore an uncanny resemblance to you, but she was still unfamiliar, still someone you hadn’t been acquainted with. Her eye was still swollen but much less inflamed, her stitches less angry, less bloody this early morning. 

You couldn’t quite face her, couldn’t stare into her haunting gaze for much longer. Your hair much more manageable, you set the brush back down on the counter and finished doing your business before you slipped back into the hall.

Kate came for you just a few moments later, entering into your room with a small silver tray, carrying a steaming mug of tea, a few cornbread biscuits, and a cup of porridge.

“Eat up, honey.” She encouraged you, setting it down on the dresser. “You’ve got a long journey ahead.”

You didn’t have to be told twice. You scarfed it all down, mumbling your appreciation to her between bites. She simply chuckled, leaning against the doorframe as she watched and waited.

You should’ve taken your time, though, because once you were finished and she’d laced up your corset, Kate ushered you out, helping you down the stairs to the saloon below, her arms wrapped around your waist to steady you. Her grip was the only thing that kept you upright, kept you on your feet.

With every step you took, your unease swelled, growing and doubling in size with each passing second. The air bit at your skin as you stepped outside, the sun just barely beginning to peek over the horizon, the blues and purples beginning to fade away.

The men were already there — Johnny and Kyle — the two of them already gathered with the horses, their coats steaming in the chill, every exhale puffing into visible clouds. 

“There you are, lass,” Johnny was first to greet you, first to spot you as you and Kate approached. “Was beginning to think you weren’t joinin’ us.”

“Nonsense.” Kate smiled, rubbing her palms along your bare arms, trying to chase the chill from your shivering form. She peered over your shoulder, meeting your gaze. “I’m gonna fetch you a shawl, yeah?”

You nodded, teeth chattering as she disappeared back inside the building, the loss of her body heat making you tremble. Kyle noticed, passing his reins over to Johnny as he stepped towards you slowly, cautiously — like he was afraid to spook you, like one wrong move would send you fleeing through the desert.

“C’mere.” He waved a hand toward you, beckoning you closer. “’til she comes back.”

You hesitated for a moment, eyes darting over him like it was some sort of trick. But you were freezing, the sun not yet providing any of its welcome warmth. With a relenting sigh, you moved closer to him, stepping into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around you, the warmth radiating from his body and seeping through his clothes, fending off the chill.

“Thanks,” You mumbled, looking anywhere but his face, your cheek pressed against his chest. The vibration of his low chuckle rumbled through him, shaking you slightly.

“Anytime, Little Fawn.”

You stayed there, tucked against him as he chatted quietly with Johnny, their words falling on deaf, uninterested ears. 

“Awfully cozy.”

The conversation died, your attention snapping towards the source behind the low, unmistakable drawl. You’d only heard his voice once, twice maybe — but it was immediately recognizable, discernible; forever etched into your mind, your soul.

He stood there, every bit as menacing and imposing as the first time you’d laid eyes on him. The red mask and black fabric beneath still concealed his face, his body still cloaked in black from head to toe.

A shadow man. A demon from hell. 

Kyle’s arms fell to his sides, stepping back from you almost instantly, like you’d suddenly burned him, scorched his very flesh.

“Kate’s getting her a shawl,” He explained calmly, his voice even as the man came closer, closing in on you like a predator stalking its prey. 

“Mhm.” 

You yelped as he abruptly tugged you into him, your body nearly ricocheting right off of his broad chest as he pulled you in, your heart hammering against your ribcage at the sudden closeness, the proximity to him. The men’s eyes tracked it silently, taking in every movement, every possessive touch, as he wrapped his arms around your waist, his gloved hands splayed across your torso, their size on you almost comical. Every bit of him was huge, gigantic — a complete mammoth of a man.

You squirmed in his grasp, pathetically trying to free yourself to no avail. You gasped as his fingers dug into your hipbones, forcing to you to still, your back flush against his chest.

“Quit.” His voice was sharp, rough in your ear, his breath warm against your uninjured temple. You stopped, cheeks burning as he held you, caught between irritation and the stubborn, unwelcome comfort of his body temperature. He radiated heat like a blazing fire, his warmth enveloping you, shielding you from the crisp, chilly air like a thick quilted blanket.

Nobody spoke until Kate came back, John Price in tow.

“Here it is.” She paused for a moment, her steps faltering as she took in the scene before her. Her smile returned as she approached, holding out the shawl to you — a soft, worn fabric patterned with deep crimson lines and swirls, maybe even some flowers; you couldn’t be sure in the low-light of the barely crested dawn.

Ghost barely released you, one hand still tight on your hip as you draped it over your shoulders.

“Best be going, then,” John Price spoke, barely batting at an eye at the thick tension, nodding at the rising sun as it crept over the jagged peaks in the distance. An unspoken understanding settled over you all, the foreboding promise that you’d be looked for, chased down to answer for the crimes of the night before, the day prior. You were honestly surprised they hadn’t already, that the sheriff hadn’t come knocking on the doors in the middle of the night. 

Guess you’d been lucky in that way. For once.

The men gathered their bearings and their horses — three beautiful geldings, each one saddled and ready, their hooves stirring up clouds of dust and sand with every impatient stomp.

The largest one — a black stallion, its coat sleek and shiny, the only break in its darkness a sharp, white star etched across its snout — stood tall and proud, powerful in his mere presence, just like his owner. Ghost strode over to him, his hand brushing the sleek neck, fingers threading through his mane in a quiet greeting. He mounted him with ease, with practiced swiftness; every motion fluid, confident, and effortless.

From atop his saddle, his eyes snapped to you — commanding, unyielding. Your blood ran cold, feet shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.

He tore his gaze away, chin nudging wordlessly at something, someone behind you. Hands landed on your waist and you squealed as you were lifted off the ground, planted squarely on the leather saddle.

Johnny stood below, tipping his hat at you with a grin before striding off, mounting his own mare.

“Fix yourself.” The voice behind you ordered, his tone rough and rasping, bleeding impatience. Biting your tongue and swallowing a smart remark, you swung your leg over the saddle clumsily, the stallion snorting at the movement. 

You flinched as his arms framed you, gloved hands taking ahold of the reins lying before you, his chest pressed firmly to your back. You swallowed thickly, the flush spreading down your neck as you tried to readjust, desperate for even a sliver of space to put between you — but there was nowhere to go, no room to gain. 

Your breath hitched when his palm flattened against your stomach, roughly pushing you back in place against him.

“Nowhere to run, princess.” 

The low taunt made your cheeks burn even hotter, your spine even straighter.

He shifted the reins to one hand, his body leaning slightly over yours, a low click of his tongue in time with the sharp nudge of his spurs against the horse’s side. The stallion lurched forward, muscles rippling as it eased into a slow trot, causing you to slide up with a startled gasp, hands flying to grip the saddle horn for balance. His arm cinched around your middle, pinning you in place, anchoring you to him.

With a wave from Kate and a subtle tip of the hat from John Price, you were off, the sky painted in streaks of orange and gold.

The town was just beginning to stir as you rode through, every movement seeming to pause as the group of you passed by. Roosters crowed from hidden yards as shutters creaked open, sleepy faces leaning out into the cool morning air — their bleary eyes following you, wide and curious. Shopkeepers slowed their sweeping, bristles dragging unhurriedly across the wood as their gazes lingered. A few riders paused mid-brush, hands stilling on their horses’ coats, watching from beneath the brims of their hats. Even the woman hauling a heavy pail across the street stole a glance, her steps faltering before she hurried on, quickly averting her gaze before she was caught staring.

Their focus was especially heavy on you, saddled up with the man from all the legends, all the myths and the stories — his touch, his grip on you possessive, claiming. His. It confirmed the rumors, the whispers that had traveled through town to those who hadn’t been there to see it, to witness it themselves in the saloon last night.

You tried to keep your chin up, your head held high. You wouldn’t let them judge you, wouldn’t let their loaded stares bother you. 

Not when you were leaving them all behind anyway.

You said nothing and neither did the men. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, wouldn’t let them twist your words. They would talk regardless, spinning all sorts of tall tales of what had happened, why you’d left, where you’d gone. You would let them think, let their minds wander — wondering how you’d gotten tied up with them in the first place, how’d you fallen in step with such notorious outlaws.

How your husband’s blood had gotten on their hands.

The journey was long and mostly quiet. Johnny and Kyle rode several paces ahead, side by side, their voices muffled, their words swept away with the breeze, the hem of your skirt fluttering along with it. The sun was higher in the sky now, unforgiving and relentless as its rays beat down on you, cicadas droning through the fields. You let the shawl slip off your shoulders, tying it around your waist so it wouldn’t fall to the ground, sweat already beading at your hairline, coating the back of your neck.

Ghost hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a sound. Nothing but the occasional grunt, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your back the only sign of life.

It took you awhile to settle, to let yourself relax against him. It wasn’t like you were going anywhere, nor were you able to escape him any time soon. The further you strayed from town, the only place you’d ever called home, you began to let up; your shoulders loosening, your posture slowly slackening.

He didn’t snap at you, didn’t order you to straighten up, to get off of him. You figured that was as good a sign as any.

It didn’t take long for you to drift off — the dizziness of the heat, the steady beat of the hooves and gentle sway of the saddle, the lack of sleep from the night before, and the solid warmth at your back pulling you under, tucking you under the chin, and cradling you close as it lulled you to rest.

You woke with a start, a sudden jolt as the horse beneath you came to a halt. You blinked back sleep, the bleariness still coating your eyes as they aimlessly shifted around, taking in your new surroundings. You weren’t sure how long you’d been out, but the sun was higher now, nearly overhead, your silhouette shadowed across the ground.

It took a moment to register that you were nestled against him, your head resting in the crook of his arm, cheek pressed against the dark fabric of his jacket. Completely limp in his arms.

Too comfortable. Too at ease.

You scrambled up, embarrassment burning low in your gut, blooming over your skin. A snort sounded from behind you, but you were too mortified to face him, to look him in the eye.

They’d come to a stop, gathered near a small pond in the middle of a wide pasture, the hills of green stretching for miles — a perfect spot for the horses to take a drink, to graze, to rest after the hours they’d already rode, the distance they’d already trekked. The water shimmered under the mid-afternoon sun, its edges framed by wildflowers and cattails swaying lazily in the breeze. 

It was quiet out there; peaceful — the melodic song of birds chirping in the distance, frogs murmuring amongst the pickerelweed, the steady hum of katydids scattered across the meadow.

“Good morning, bonnie!” Johnny sauntered up to you, his horse already roaming free amongst the pasture, a playful grin stretched across his tan face, his cheeks reddened from the sun. “Hope we dinnae disturb ya, lassie. Looked like you were gettin’ in a good sleep there.”

You shot him a glare as he chuckled to himself, finding much amusement in your humiliation, though you still took the hand he offered up — albeit begrudgingly. His other palm landed on your waist, guiding you down until your boots hit the packed, hard earth below. You were a bit unsteady at first, legs stiff and thighs aching from the long ride — and you knew you likely had much left to go, much more ground to cover.

You strode off, needing to put distance between yourself and the man in the mask — the one you’d been tucked up against for god knew how long. You hated that you’d been vulnerable, had allowed yourself to unwind in his presence. Hated that you’d given him the satisfaction of seeing you unguarded, defenseless — nonetheless, draped right over him.

It nettled under your skin, filled you with anger and shame — much more than you would’ve liked, would’ve cared to admit.

The lake was so inviting, so beautiful as the water glittered beneath the sun like scattered, precious jewels. Little fish and tadpoles swam below, sending ripples across the otherwise still surface.

You wasted no time in kicking off your stockings, your boots, your skirt balled up in your fists as you dipped your bare feet in. The cool water swirled around your toes, the chill rushing up your legs and leaving tiny goosebumps in its wake. It was the perfect counter, the perfect remedy to the sun beating down on your shoulders, your skin slick with sweat. The little fish, their scales iridescent and silver, darted around your feet, glinting in the sun like tiny bolts of lightening.

The air was fresher out there, cleaner. Grass and soil, freshwater and algae, clovers and daises — the blend of fresh scents filled your nose, your lungs, undisturbed by the dust and manure, tar and oil, and tobacco and whiskey that usually greeted you every time you walked through town. 

Your old town, you realized. Your old home. Would you ever go back? Would you ever return?

No, you decided in that moment. You wouldn’t. Not if you had anything to say about it.

It was officially in the past, miles and miles behind you now. You wanted to leave it there, right with that narrow band of gold you’d worn on your finger for far too long.

You lingered in the shallow end, hiking your dress up even higher as you nudged at rocks buried in the mud and clay, poking at little shells and pebbles with your toes, the water splashing and rippling with each step you took as you mindlessly drifted about. When you finally got bored, you waded back to shore, letting your skirt fall back down as you pulled your stockings and boots back on, eventually wandering over to where Kyle lay sprawled out in the grass a few feet away.

“Hey there.” He greeted you with a soft smile, tilting his head back to look at you, the brim of his hat canted over his face, shielding him from the sun. “Enjoy your dip?”

You nodded, plopping down beside him.

Wordlessly, he passed you his half-emptied canteen and you accepted it graciously, taking a long sip, little droplets dribbling down your chin.

“Hungry?” He asked, watching as you wiped your face with the back of your hand.

“Starved.”

A couple slices of jerky and a half-eaten foil packet of hardtack was placed in the palm of your hands.

“It’s all yours.”

You thanked him before you ate, the salty meat and dry, hard biscuits just enough to satiate your hunger for the next few hours, if you were lucky. It was as good a meal as you’d get for who knew how long. You washed it down with a bit more of his water, conscious not to drain what was left.

“Have you guys ridden through here before?” You asked, curious if this spot was a common meeting ground or stopping point to those passing through to wherever it was you were headed, a destination you hadn’t been informed of. 

“Once before,” Kyle answered, leaning back against the ground, his arms folded beneath his head. “Though not often enough. It’s rare you find slivers of peace out west.”

There was something about the way he spoke, the inflection in his voice that made you wonder, had you reconsidering the foreign lilt that bled into their words, their speech.

“Y’all aren’t from around here,” You asked, though you were already sure of the answer. “are you?”

A small, knowing grin tugged at his full lips. “No, doll. We’re not.”

You wanted to know more — their life story, their home, where they’d come from. When they’d all met, how they’d ended up here. Was it the gold that enticed them, the temptation of riches and fortune? The promise of new land, new territory to claim? Or, were they believers of that manifest destiny, like your daddy and his own before him?

You were about to ask, to begin your series of questions when a shadow fell over you, shading you from the sun and shrouding you in darkness.

“We’re leaving.”

His voice was like a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, soaking you to the bone. The calmness that had settled over you, the brief tranquility you’d felt was ripped away in an instant.

He stared down at you, his eyes narrowed and unreadable from behind the red metal of his mask. He was always so menacing, always carrying a promise of danger, an air of authority with him wherever he went.

Kyle stood, brushing the dirt and grass off his denim-clad legs before readjusting his hat to sit properly atop his head. He extended a hand to help you, to assist you in getting up and off the ground, the strap of his canteen slung over his shoulder. You went to take it, your palm hovering just above his when a low, warning growl rumbled through the air.

Your head snapped towards Ghost, irritation and heat prickling your skin. Kyle froze for a moment before he recovered, retracting his outstretched hand as he awkwardly cleared his throat. He couldn’t meet your eyes as you looked up at him desperately, pleading silently with him before he walked off, leaving you alone with him.

“She’s mine.”

You heard the threat in his growl — unspoken yet abundantly clear. It frustrated you, the way he never wasted a moment to stake his claim, a chance to chase the others away from you like a flock of birds, like he had gained some sort of right to do so after he killed your husband, had driven away your father.

He offered his own hand to you, the leather still covering his skin, concealing his fingers. You didn’t take it, didn’t want to — you would’ve sooner melted into the damp ground beneath you. A low grunt escaped him, muffled against the fabric of his mask, as he bent down and gripped your arm, hauling you to your feet.

“I can stand on my own.” You bit out, irritation sharpening your voice, your unease and fear of him momentarily forgotten. “Thanks.”

He just glared at you, sharp eyes burning holes right through your skull until he finally spoke.

“Don’t seem like it to me.” His gaze dragged over your body, slow and unhurried as he scanned you from head to toe — it made you shudder in disgust.

“Brat.” 

Your brows furrowed, your lips curved in simmering anger, the embers of your flame stoked by his cruelty, his insolence.

“Aye, Ghost!” Johnny’s voice broke through the tension, preventing you from saying something stupid — something that would likely incite even more anger from the man you’d seen kill without so much as blinking. He stood by his horse, the reins of the black stallion held in his hands. “You ready or wha’?”

The man in black, your own personal harbinger of hell, stared down at you, his head hovering an unfathomable height above yours — so tall, completely towering over you. Yours barely reached the top of his chest. 

He nudged his chin at you, a wordless command to move your feet. You scowled, arms crossed over your chest as you all but stomped back to the men, the waiting horses.

You didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound for miles. 

a/n: i am so sorry for the delay y'all, school has started up again and it has been crazy. i hope it was worth the wait <3

You didn’t reach town until sunset.

You’d been riding for hours, traveling on horseback through rolling hills of green, jagged peaks of red and orange-tinged mesas towering in the distance.

It had been so long since you’d seen any bit of civilization, any sign of life and community. You were beginning to think you’d have to set up camp somewhere in the middle of the fields at the rate you were going, having to hunker down for the night by a makeshift fire. 

And then, it finally came into view. As the horses climbed up the ridge, you could see it — the faint outline of buildings, the smoke curling out from chimneys, the twinkling lights.

It was a town much larger than the one you’d called home. As you grew nearer, the sounds and the smells and the structures came more into focus, bleeding into your senses, making you perk up in the saddle. Multi-story buildings of stucco and brick, of timber and stone, clustered together for as far as the eye could see, winding streets of knobby cobblestone and dirt weaving and connecting them to each other.

There were people everywhere. Folks big and small, young and old — they milled about, horses and children, full baskets and rolling carriages, dogs and even some chickens everywhere you looked.

It was unlike anything you’d ever seen before, had ever experienced.

Your head was on swivel, taking it all in with bright eyes and a bushy tail. You’d never seen so many people in your life, so much hustle and bustle. It was like you’d entered a whole new world, some sort of foreign place.

As you rode through town, you could feel the eyes on you, could see the watchful gazes for yourself. People stepped aside as the three horses passed, not just out of courtesy but out of recognition, of acknowledgment of the men astride them.

There was fear, sure. It was palpable in the eyes that darted away, in the figures slipping into alleyway shadows to get as far away as possible. 

Others just flat-out didn’t care, didn’t turn your way at all as you made your way through.

But from what you could tell, from what you could glean from the many curious faces that turned your way and the gazes that lingered, there was also respect. Awe.

You thought for sure you were seeing things, were misreading the nods and the wide eyed stares. Surely, they couldn’t be revering the men you rode with — the outlaws, ones with hands bloodier than thou. Men who killed, men who stole, men who had no regard for the law and little for human life.

The people here — had they heard a different version of the legends that had spread through your town? Tales that painted them in a different, brighter light?

The men carried on, unaffected and unperturbed — as if there weren’t any set of eyes on them, any spectators at all. You couldn’t tell if it was because they were used to it or that they were purposely ignoring it, not wanting to engage.

Except for Johnny, of course. He tipped his hat at a pretty young woman as they passed, her cheeks flaring crimson before she turned away, flustered. You could see his grin from your spot, could hear the sound of his low chuckle carry over to you.

Finally, they drew the horses to a halt before a three-story building, its red brick facade trimmed with dark green. Warm light and music spilled out from the ground floor, an energetic medley of fiddles, guitars, and violins drifting through open windows and filtering out into the dusty street.

The Prairie Rose.

Kyle dismounted first, swinging down from the saddle with ease. The reins still in his grip, he looped them around a nearby post out front, already crowded with others’ horses, Johnny following suit moments later.

You stiffened as Ghost shifted behind you, his large hand sliding from your waist, the heat of him vanishing with it. The absence made you shiver, leaving you colder than before, colder than you realized you could be as the sun set over the horizon, whisking away the sweltering heat of the afternoon and early evening.

He was on the ground before you knew it, standing beside the stallion and peering up at you through the holes of that red metal mask, his gloved hand raised up in offering.

You hesitated for a moment, your brows furrowed. He let out an impatient huff, rolling his eyes at your reluctance, your ever-present trepidation around him. You knew your unease, your apprehension was not well hidden — not around him.

Begrudgingly, you took it, slipping your hand in his as you swung your leg over the saddle. The stallion was too big, too tall for you to smoothly dismount on your own. Your heart caught in your throat when his hands slid up your waist, bracketing your ribs, catching you firmly beneath your arms as he helped you down to the ground.

“Thanks.” You muttered under your breath, dusting off your skirt and avoiding his gaze at all costs, even when he continued to stare.

Johnny and Kyle were already walking up the wooden steps of the building and you rushed to follow, eager to get away from the man you’d been pressed up against for hours, sharing the same horse and small sliver of space all day long. The proximity, the perpetual closeness — it was beginning to chafe against your skin, your mind and body.

He was right behind you, his gait unhurried, leisured — the tread of his boots as he trailed after you was haunting, predatory; the sound of his heavy footsteps sending a slight sliver down your spine.

He knew you wouldn’t go far, couldn’t even if you tried. He’d never allow it. 

The saloon was rowdy, packed full of bodies — the smell of sweat, whiskey, and tobacco nearly suffocating as you entered, the music seemingly twice as loud inside. Smoke curled through the room, making it harder to see in the already dimly lit space. You nearly lost sight of the men as they twisted and twined through the crowd, not even aware that you’d gone after them; their strides much larger and longer than yours, the space between them and you beginning to grow as you lagged behind, caught up in the swarm.

Panic seized you for a brief moment, at the way the room seemed to shrink, the air beginning to thin. You suddenly felt trapped, pressed in on all sides, swept into the current, the uproar threatening to drag you under — especially when two drunkards barreled past, knocking you hard enough to trip over your feet. 

A large palm settled between your shoulder blades, fingers digging into the tense muscle there. You didn’t have to turn around to see who it was.

And for the first time yet, you felt nothing but relief at his presence.

He tugged you close to him as he carved a path through the crowd, your back pressed to his chest like you were back atop the saddle. Unlike you, Ghost was too big, too large to ignore. Those too slow to move out of his way were shoved aside, stumbling under the brute force of his broad shoulders that knocked into them. The few bold enough to confront him froze, immediately losing their bravado when they saw him, their protests shriveling up and dying on their tongues.

He steered you toward the far side of the room, all but pushing you through the open archway there.

It led you into a small room, a lobby of sorts. Nothing more than a tall counter, the chipped wood painted a dark red, the walls a pale yellow, and a handful of worn leather armchairs tucked in the corners, a large wrought-iron chandelier dangling overhead.

Johnny and Kyle were standing at the counter, deep in conversation with the lady standing behind it, barely paying you any mind as you and Ghost entered.

“You’re telling me you ain’t got nottin’ but two?” Johnny was saying, holding up the number with his fingers. “‘cause that ain’t gonna work for us, lassie.”

“I-I’m sorry,” The woman replied with a shake of her head, seeming genuinely regretful. “But that’s all we got tonight, boys. If we knew y’all were coming, well.” She shrugged. “Different story.”

“Two is more than fine.” Kyle pulled Johnny back, leaning against the countertop and giving her a charming, boyish smile. “We’ll make do just fine for the night, won’t we, Johnny Boy?”

He scoffed, shoving Kyle’s hands off his shoulder while the other man chuckled. “You snore like a fuckin’ moose, Garrick. That ain’t fine by me.”

“What are y’all on about?” You asked as you approached. Three pairs of eyes flicked over to you, and, almost in unison, lifted past you, up and over your shoulder to the man still looming just as close as he’d been in the saloon, atop the saddle.

The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of him, immediately mumbling something intelligible as she shoved two sets of metal key rings on the countertop before scurrying off into a back room, out of sight and out of the line of potential fire.

“They’ve only got two beds for us,” Kyle answered you, but his eyes were focused on the man at your back. “Said they’re booked up otherwise.”

Your stomach dropped at the sound of that, the grim realization that came along with it. “Two?” Your voice was a mere squeak. “But  — there’s four of us.”

“Good counting there, bonnie.” Johnny teased, but the humor wiped off his face at whatever warning look he received, one you couldn’t see from where you stood.

Two beds. Two rooms. 

The reality set in, your body beginning to tremble at the thought of it, the awareness of how this would go, how it would play out. You wouldn’t be alone — not tonight. Not when three intensely large men surrounded you, when two of them would barely be able to squeeze onto one mattress — let alone the man behind you, the biggest of them all. You hadn’t seen it yourself, but you had strong, sincere doubts that any person would be able to share a bed with him and not fall right off the edge.

How desperately you wished to be back home, to turn back time to this morning, when you’d had your own room, your own bed, all to yourself.

“She’s with me.”

He spoke before you could process it, before you could object — but you’d known it was coming anyway. Knew that you wouldn’t be so lucky as to bunk with Johnny or Kyle, to room with one of the two. You barely knew them, either; had spent just as much time in their company as you had in Ghost’s. They were all strangers in their own right — but you felt much more comfortable, much safer at the idea of sharing with one of them instead of him.

If you thought sharing a saddle was bad, the idea of sharing four walls — a bed — was much, much worse.

The momentary relief you’d felt at his presence disappeared as quickly as it came. Gone with the wind.

“I don’t—” You stammered pathetically, desperately fumbling for some excuse, something to absolve you from your fate. “I just don’t think—I don’t want to—”

“Tough.” 

Ghost stepped around you, snatching one of the key rings from the counter, the metal instrument looking abnormally small in his grip, like some sort of child’s toy. His glower pinned you in place, enough to shut you up, to stop you from speaking, from protesting any further.

You swallowed thickly, your throat as dry as the desert sand. Johnny and Kyle said nothing, their lips sealed and their thoughts to themselves. 

It was settled.

You had little choice but to follow him up the stairs, winding your way up to the third floor where the music finally began to dim, the halls much quieter than below. Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, your hands trembling as he slid the key into the rusted lock, kicking the door open the rest of the way.

It was a decently sized room, larger than the one you’d been given in the saloon back home. The uneven brick walls were painted a stark white, softened by the warm glow of the dual oil lamps flickering on the nightstands. Wooden support beams crossed the ceiling overhead, and the dark planks beneath your feet were mostly covered by a colorful patchwork rug that had to have been hand-stitched. A chair and an old chest of drawers had been pushed to the side, the bed taking up majority of the space, the quilt folded back and clean.

Ghost trudged inside, but you didn’t follow. Couldn’t. Your feet were rooted to the floor, unable to move; frozen in place.

“You gonna stand there all night?” 

He didn’t turn to you, didn’t face you when he spoke, instead approaching the fireplace. He picked up a few logs that had been stacked beside it and threw them into the hearth.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out — no words, no sounds.

You watched as the fire roared to life, its orange glow spilling into the room and casting shadows across the walls, the immediate warmth chasing away the chill left behind by the now sleeping sun.

His eyes found yours as he stood there before the fire, the flames blazing at his back. It made him look all the more intimidating, all the more like he crawled from the very depths of hell, the pits of despair.

“In. I don’t bite, princess.”

You weren’t so sure about that. 

But nonetheless, you shuffled forward, knowing you had no other choice other than to sleep in the hallway — and you weren’t that desperate. Not yet, anyways.

You’d never been alone with him before. It had never been just the two of you in one space, one room — there had always been someone else around, someone else as a buffer, a safety net. Another life source to cling onto. Just in case.

Now, there was no one. Nobody else but you and him.

The implications of it all began to trickle in, settling into the pit of your stomach, weighing down like a heavy stone sinking in a pond. The singular bed. The closed door.

The lack of a ring on your finger.

Your face burned, your skin red-hot and flushed. You pulled at the collar of your dress, as if it would offer you some reprieve — more air, more room to breathe. Anything.

The rustle of fabric pulled your gaze from the floor to Ghost as he shrugged out of his long leather coat, carelessly tossing it onto the wooden chair in the corner. You couldn’t look away, couldn’t help but stare as he rolled the black sleeves of his dress shirt up to his forearms, his arms thick and corded with muscle, light hair dusted over pale skin littered with scars — the first time you’d gotten a glimpse at him, at what was beneath all those layers. 

A reminder that there was, in fact, a human being underneath the mask — a man. Living, breathing, in the flesh.

But not just any man, though. A man of strength, of power. Overwhelming in height, in breadth, in weight. In everything.

You blushed even harder, your skin as bright as the fire crackling across the room as your stomach fluttered, completely and utterly betraying you and your senses.

It was like he knew — like he could feel the heat and the weight of your stare, sheepish yet unwavering, fixed on him and his exposed skin as if you were caught in some sort of trance.

His eyes met yours, the brown of his so dark, so rich — they were like endless pits of earth, the deepest pockets of the night sky. The firelight reflected across them, his pupils blown out, seeming to devour the flames, smothering them in their depths.

Your breath caught in your throat, shame and embarrassment and fascination licking at your spine, curling in your chest. It was a pull you hadn’t felt before, an unexpected and unexplainable shift that threaded through the unease, the fear.

It didn’t make sense. None whatsoever.

His gaze narrowed, mouth curving slightly beneath the mask. It told you everything you needed to know — he definitely knew. Knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling. Every bit of it was written across your face, etched into the lines of your body. 

You had never been good at hiding how you felt.

A low, throaty sound rumbled from deep within his chest — not quite a chuckle, not quite a growl. Somewhat of a cross between the two. He’d caught you, his gaze searing right into you, right past your flimsy, transparent defenses.

But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t taunt you, didn’t twist the knife of blatant humiliation even further. 

He didn’t need to. His silence — it said enough. It said it all.

You cleared your throat, a strangled sort of noise as you spun on your heels and turned away sharply, finally freeing yourself from the spell that had fallen over you. Your cheeks, your skin — they couldn’t possibly be any hotter.

“I—” You struggled for the words, for any bit of sense as you squeezed your eyes shut, jaw tight and fingers clenched. “I need to…I need to wash up.”

A grunt, a creak of the floorboards under his weight. “Alright.”

He was behind you before you knew it, taking barely two long strides to get to you. You nearly stopped breathing as his gloved fingertips slowly brushed against your collarbone, your skin breaking out into goosebumps in response, your heart seizing in your chest like the traitor it was.

“W—what are you—” You gasped as he began to tug at the white fabric of your dress, dragging it down your shoulder. You recoiled instantly, spinning to face him, your hand swatting his away as you scrambled out of reach, your back hitting the far wall in the midst of your escape.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t even have the nerve to look guilty, to look ashamed of his attempt. Your heart was racing now, eyes wide and locked onto his as you yanked the dress back up and into place, body now fully in fight or flight mode — ready to scream, ready to run, ready to take the blow you knew was coming. 

An all too familiar feeling, indeed.

His head tilted to the side, gaze flicking over your face like he was examining it, like he was trying to read your mind, to make sense of your thoughts, your fears.

But he didn’t move, didn’t tense, didn’t yell. Didn’t make a move to strike, to reprimand you for your refusal, your shock. 

In fact, he did nothing at all.

“Your corset.” His voice was gravelly, steady, calm when he finally spoke. “Can’t bathe with in on, now, can you?”

It wasn’t a taunt, wasn't a dig. Nothing but the cold, obvious truth spilling from his lips in that no-nonsense way of his.

You stood there for a moment, chest heaving, short, panting breaths escaping you, eyes never once leaving his — never daring to, not even for a second. You stared and stared, watching and waiting for the inevitable, for the fist to follow his words. For the punishing grip on your hair, the smack across the face.

But it never came. It took you a few minutes to realize it was never going to. That he wasn’t him — he wasn’t your husband.

Your dead husband. The one that could never hurt you again.

“I just—I just thought you—I—What were you even—” You clutched at your chest, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress as if searching for some semblance of stability.

“You thought what?” He asked, poking and prodding at you, not ready to let go of whatever that moment, that reaction had been. He took a step towards you, and you flinched — just barely, unintentionally, but enough for him to notice, to pocket that bit of information for later.

“You thought I was gonna hurt you? Gonna force myself on you, eh?”

You nodded slowly, teeth sinking into your lower lip, your pulse still coming down, still trying to regulate itself back to normal.

He shook his head, clucking his tongue in admonishment. “That’s where you’re wrong ‘bout me, love.” He took another step towards you, your trembling body. “Don’t force myself on women. Don’t need to.”

“Why, because you’re a gentleman?”

The words slipped before you could think, before you could stop yourself. You were tempted to clamp a hand right over your mouth, to apologize and plead for mercy as to not evoke any of his rage, his anger.

But instead, he laughed. A deep chuckle, resonant and rumbling like a roll of thunder in an unrelenting storm. It shocked you, a reaction so at odds with anything your occasional sharp tongue had ever been met with before; a sound you never thought you’d hear come from a man like him.

“Never claimed to be a gentleman, love.” His eyes glinted with humor, with devilish amusement. You were sure you’d find something resembling a smirk under the mask if you’d been given the opportunity to look. “Never will.”

You could barely stop yourself from shuddering, from visibly reacting to his words, the thinly veiled implications woven within — you heard them loud and clear. And the way he was looking at you — you’d never felt more like caged prey, seconds away from being pounced on, from being devoured whole.

But he took a step back and then another, the space now stretching between you, giving you room to breathe. Your exhale was loud, audible, full of relief. 

“You able to get outta that yourself then, yeah?”

It took you a moment to realize he was referring to your corset, the one laced up tightly under your dress. The reason for this whole mess in the first place.

Truth was, you couldn’t. You couldn’t get out of it by yourself. It was, unfortunately, a two person job. Kate had been the one to help you put it on this morning, and now, she wasn’t here to help get you out of it. Nobody was.

Nobody except him. Except Ghost.

It was wrong on so many levels to be in just your undergarments around a man you barely knew, a man who wasn’t your husband — for chrissakes, the man who had killed your husband. It was indecent, improper. It was downright unbecoming.

But you were left with no choice, weren’t you?

His eyes never left yours, never once straying from your face or your form as you kicked off your boots and slowly, carefully slipped the dress off your body, the white linen pooling on the floor at your feet, your cheeks crimson-red. 

You still had clothes on, fabric still covering much of you by way of your chemise and your pantalets — but you may as well have been naked. You felt vulnerable, exposed; completely inappropriate.

It didn’t help that he was looking at like that. Like he could see right through your remaining layers, peeling them back one by one with his gaze until there was nothing left, nothing that remained. Nothing that protected you from him.

There was a sort of hunger in his eyes, something simmering just beneath the surface. Something that made your stomach twist, made the flush spread across the rest of your body, down your neck and to your toes. Something barely restrained, barely held back.

You weren’t sure if he would keep to his word, if he was just lulling you into a false sense of security, even just for a second so he could get his hands on you. You knew, just by looking at him, that he could overpower you, could subdue you with little to no effort. 

You had no reason to trust him, no reason to believe he wouldn’t hurt you. No reason to believe that this hadn’t been the plan all along — to steal you from your home, cart you off to a foreign place, isolate you from the others, and utterly destroy you the second he got the chance for nothing but the sake of his own twisted pleasure.

You turned around, your eyes closed in resignation, having made peace with the fact that you had no other choice, no other option.

You felt your pulse pound in your ears as he came up behind you, towering over you like he always did, your head brushing against the top of his chest.

He didn’t touch you. Not at first. He hovered, fingers suspended above the strings, almost as if he was hesitating, stalling — for some unknown reason or another.

And then, he was there. Fingers caught in the laces, entangled in the woven strands of cotton and silk. Your breath hitched, trapped in your chest, unable to be freed — the corset unable to be blamed for it.

Cord by cord, he untied each one, unraveling them from their carefully constructed knots and loops. Each tug, each pull gave you a little more reprieve, a little more freedom from the binding restraints; the garment a cruel reminder of the life you once lived, the life that had trapped you for far too long.

Your fists clenched at your sides, your eyes squeezed so tightly it gave you a pulsing headache.

He worked methodically, unhurried, without a single sound, a single word. No reassurances, no commands, no snarky remarks. Nothing. Just you and him, the crackle of the fire, and the silence that stretched between you.

With deft fingers and quiet skill, the last string loosened, setting the corset free at last. Your spine caved in on itself, the relief so blissful that your exhale was audible. He let the garment tumble to the ground, landing at your feet, your dress softening its thud. 

You wanted to scold him for it, for treating such an expensive, delicate piece so carelessly   — but you couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come, any sensible thoughts barely forming. You couldn’t move, could hardly breathe, completely rooted to the spot as his warmth pressed against you from behind. His breath grazing your temple, his chest rising and falling, his hands hovering over your sides.

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it, could feel it. 

“There.”

You bit back a gasp, a squeak catching in your throat as the pad of his finger traced the line of your spine, the thin fabric of your chemise scraping against your skin, making you shiver.

It was too much, all at once. The proximity, the closeness, the touch, the warmth. His voice. You felt like you were on overload, your nerves frayed and your brain scrambled, your stomach pooling with something you wouldn’t dare admit — not even if there was a gun to your head.

You shot forward, right out of his embrace, out of his reach.

“T-Thank you,” You stammered, refusing to face him as you smoothed down the front of your undergarments, the reminder of just how exposed, just how close to naked you truly were in another man’s presence — a man you barely knew — like a bucket of ice cold water poured right over your head, seeping into your veins, your nervous system. 

“I-I’m…I think…I’m gonna w-wash up now.”

You could barely formulate the sentence, words and feet stumbling over each other as you all but ran out the door like the coward you were, head down and eyes trained ahead. 

You didn’t look back at him, not once. 

By the time you reached the washroom, blessedly empty and unoccupied, you collapsed against the closed door, limbs heavy and weak, breath stolen from your body, unable to be found, caught, regained. It felt like you’d run for miles, sprinting the entirety of the distance you’d traveled on horseback.

As you shed the rest of your garments and slipped under the lukewarm water of the bath, you tried desperately to forget the exchange, the cacophony of thoughts and feelings swarming your mind, gnawing at you ceaselessly. You scrubbed and scrubbed at yourself, trying and failing to wash away the shame that coated you like an inky, oily film — as if that would work. As if it would erase your sins.

You stayed in that bath for as long as possible, much longer than justifiable or remotely reasonable. Your skin was pruny and red, nearly rubbed raw from your incessant attempts, the water nearly freezing, but you were in no rush to leave. No rush to get back to the man waiting for you in that room so far away from prying eyes and helping hands. Lord knows you were bound to need them if you spent another minute or two alone in his presence.

But when you finally mustered up the courage to head back, the room was empty. Vacant.

Hypocritically, you felt the tiny pang of disappointment at the realization, the discovery that he was gone, slipped off into the night and disappearing into the shadows he wore like a second skin.

You quickly scolded yourself, muttering how you were much better off alone as you pulled back the quilt, slipping under the sheets and settling into the bed.

You fell asleep without issue, the toll of the day and the traveling thoroughly wearing you out. You were utterly exhausted, dozing off the second your head hit the pillow, your body endlessly grateful for the rest and relaxation at last.

You were so tired, indeed, that you barely stirred when the door slowly creaked open a few hours later, the old hinges announcing the late night arrival. You didn’t so much as twitch as the bed dipped beside you, the sudden wall of warmth and muscle at your back, the low grunt in adjustment.

You only knew he was there when the sun just began to rise, your body still in tune with your old routine, your old life. You shifted with a quiet groan, groggy and slightly dazed as your bleary eyes cracked open, one at a time. The room was dark, the fire just a pile of smoldering embers in the hearth, the flames of the oil lamps long since blown out. 

Only a sliver of reddish orange glow snuck in through the sheer curtains, just barely enough light to make out the thick arm thrown over your waist. 

It took a moment for your brain to catch up, to make sense of what you were seeing. Your eyes widened, your inhale sharp — loud enough to disturb the owner of that arm, the rumble of his groan traveling through you, his chest pressed against your back.

You knew it was him without looking, without turning your head. Ghost. The man who had claimed you. The man who hadn’t let you out of his sight, out of his reach for hours. 

But you snuck a peek anyway, needing to confirm it for yourself. Slowly, carefully, you moved, craning your neck to steal a glimpse, to make sure you weren’t imagining things. 

You couldn’t see much, couldn’t get a good enough view in the nearly pitch black room — but the tiny scrap of early morning sunlight was just enough to make out the features of the man behind you, a man whose features you didn’t recognize upon first glance.

The outline of a sharp, crooked nose. A square jaw dusted with light hair. Thick brows. Plush lips, a scar cutting right across the top.

It wasn't enough to match a description, to pick a face out of a lineup — but it was enough to know that it was him. You knew it in your bones, felt it in your soul. 

He moved in his sleep, arm tightening against your middle and pulling you tighter against him, trapping you in his embrace. Your head rolled forward, facing the wall, tearing your eyes away from what you would presume was the one, rare chance you’d get at seeing his face. Seeing the man behind the mask, the human hidden behind the black fabric and hard metal shell.

And when you woke up hours later, your room full of sunshine and natural light, he was gone. Like he had never been there at all.

Like it had all been a dream.

a/n: i am so sorry this too so long to get out. i hope it was worth the wait <3 more to come when grad school releases me from its clutches

You woke up that morning cold and alone.

The fire had long since gone out, nothing but a heap of ashes in the hearth. The sun poured through the curtains, flooding the room so brightly that you had to shield your eyes when you first opened them.

You’d slept well, better than you had in a long time — longer than you’d like to admit.

You had a feeling you knew why.

It was as if it had been a dream, a product of your half conscious and slightly delirious imagination. 

The corded arm over your torso. The heat and weight at your back. The glaring, cold absence that morning, the reminder written in the wrinkled sheets beside you.

He’d been there. You’d fallen asleep without him, but he’d come back under the cloak of darkness, slipping beneath the quilt mere hours after midnight.

You thought you’d feel violated, uncomfortable. Ashamed. Troubled by the fact that you’d shared a bed with a man you barely knew, a man with a rap sheet longer than the main road in this town. 

But all that coursed through you was disappointment.

It was an odd feeling, one you weren’t quite ready to make sense of, to admit to yourself nor anyone else. For chrissakes, it was too early for it, too early to dissect the confusing thoughts and feelings stirring inside your brain, your heart, your soul.

You threw the sheets off of you, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. There was a dull ache in your limbs, in your back, but most of the pain from the past few days had eased. Not gone, not healed, but better. Even the ache in your temple had subsided, the swelling at your eye nearly gone. The wound was healing but still angry, still red and stinging.

Still in your undergarments, you bent down to pick your white dress off the floor when you saw it — a pile of garments folded neatly on the otherwise barren dresser. You stood up, straightening  as you approached it, sorting through the stack tentatively, as if you weren’t sure you were supposed to be touching it.

A dress, the cotton dipped and dyed a sky blue accompanied by a matching top with long sleeves, white lace trimming the necklace, small brown buttons trailing down the bodice. A new, fresh set of undergarments, the linen and muslin starched and clean, along with two pairs of stockings and socks laid out for wear. And finally, a brown belt, the leather carved with intricate swirls and lines, the buckle polished and gleaming gold.

You were speechless. A gift, a present — for you. 

It’d been a long time since you’d received one — not from your family and definitely not from your husband. After all, you’d been wearing the same clothes for so long they’d begun to rip at the seams, holding onto dear life by a needle and thread.

Your fingers traced the fabric, running over the intricate stitching — the sign of a professional, not some amateur with shoddy handiwork, which was what most of your garments back home had been. Hand-me-downs or throwaways taken from the church donation bin, most in desperate need of repair. This set, it had to have been expensive. The color, the lace — even the buttons. 

A knock at the door made you jump nearly right out of your skin. You dropped the clothes back on the dresser like your hands had been set on fire, quickly yanking the quilt off the bed and wrapping it around your body before you answered it. 

An unfamiliar woman with a kind smile and what looked like some sort of standard uniform stood on the other side, a silver platter in her hands. When you shook your head, insisting it was some kind of mistake, that you didn’t order anything, that she had to have had the wrong room — she simply waved you off. Already paid for, she told you.

Biscuits and gravy, a small stack of hotcakes, ham and eggs. It was the most delectable and luxurious breakfast you’d ever seen, had ever tasted. Nothing like it had ever been prepared for you — not once, not ever. You practically licked the plate and your fingers clean, devouring it without leaving a single crumb, a single trace of the feast. It hadn’t helped that you didn’t have much to eat the day before.

You weren’t sure who’d sent it, but you were grateful for it. Grateful to have food in your stomach — warm and delicious. 

Although, you had your suspicions about the sender.

Not long after you’d finished eating, there was another knock on the door. Another woman stood behind it — her skin a light brown, her hair dark and braided, her lips full and her nose wide. You’d never seen her before — yet, you hadn’t seen much of anyone in this town, so that didn’t mean much. 

“You Fawn?” She asked, piercing pale blue eyes scanning you up and down, her thick brows raised at your appearance, at the state of you.

You clutched the bedspread tighter around you like it could shield you, your hand wrapped around the edge of the door, using it almost as a barrier between you, one that you could slam shut at any time. The use of that name — Fawn — it was the only reason you had to believe that she had to have been a friend, not foe. 

Only the men called you by that name.

“Who’s asking?” You regarded her cautiously, hesitantly — looking precisely like your nickname implied. Timid, wide-eyed, skittish. A mere second away from closing the door in her face and running until your wobbly legs collapsed. 

The corners of the woman’s mouth tipped upward in a smirk, like something about you amused her. Like she was thinking the exact same thing.

“Yeah, you’re her.” She nodded to herself, eyes continuing their appraisal of you before landing on back your face, finally meeting your gaze.

“Rozlin,” She informed you of her name with a tip of her chin. “You can call me Roze.”

You just stared at her for a moment, still skeptical of what she was doing here, what she wanted. How she even knew your name, where to find you.

“Okay.” You inclined your head slowly but still unsurely. “Roze.” 

A beat passed and then another. Not a word exchanged, the air filling with wariness, confusion — at least, on your end.

 “Can I help you with something, Roze?”

“Johnny sent me.” She explained, folding her arms across her chest, the cream colored girdle she wore pushing her breasts up so high that they were almost spilling out. Your eyes couldn’t help but flicker down, tracking the movement. “Said you were in need of a new wardrobe.”

Your attention shot back to her face. “A new what?”

She shrugged, like she didn’t quite know herself but was merely relaying the message. “That’s what he told me. Said you needed some things, that I ought’ta take you into town. Said you hadn’t come here with much.”

Well, she was right about that. You had nothing but the undergarments you wore, your dirty white linen dress, your worn-in cowboy boots, and the shawl Kate had lent you — all that you had to your name. And your new set of clothes, of course, but still. They were only things you could claim as your own. Not much at all.

“Johnny told you that?”

“More or less.” She reached into her leather satchel and produced a small navy pouch, the felt cinched tightly with a drawstring. She gave it a little shake, and the sound was unmistakable — coins clinking, solid and metallic. “Handed me this himself.”

You were confused, surprised — the prospect of the man you’d just met mere days ago thinking of you kindly, entrusting you to a woman you’d never met but he must’ve known well enough to take care of you, to buy you some more new clothes with money of his own. It was a kind of care you’d never been given, not by anyone.

Of course your original, quiet assumption was wrong. The man you’d slept beside the night before would’ve never arranged this — not the dress, not the food, not the acquaintance nor the money. Of course it had been Johnny. 

Ghost would never. He wasn’t that type of man. You didn’t know much about him beyond the legends, but you knew that. You shook the thought away, the naive notion that he was anything other than the man in those stories and tall tales.

“Get yourself dressed.” Roze nudged her chin at you, fingers tapping against the wooden doorframe, slightly scuffed and a little splintered around the edges. “We’ve got a busy day ‘head of us.”

And so, you did. You hesitated only momentarily after you’d shut the door, the pile of new, beautiful and clean clothes staring at you from the dresser. Tempting you, calling to you. 

Who were you to let them go to waste, to collect dust? Unworn and unseen?

You tossed the quilt aside and shed your old undergarments with haste, taking great care while slipping in the new ones, their fabric so spotless, so delicate and silky — nothing like the itchy, rough ones you’d worn for far longer than you should’ve. 

Giddy excitement ran through you as you dressed, fingers combing through your tousled locks. Your lips stretched into a smile, a real one — your first in ages.

You stepped out of your room, finding Roze leaning against the wall outside of it. She took in your appearance, eyes scanning you up and down.

“New wardrobe, huh?” She huffed under her breath. She let out a small sigh before waving you forward. “Alright, let’s get a move on.”

You followed after her, new skirt clutched delicately in your hands as you descended the steps into the lobby, stepping through the archway and cutting through the saloon. It was empty, save for two people you presumed were employees — a man and a woman, one sweeping up the floor while the other polished some glasses behind the bar. They gave you both a nod in silent greeting, but their eyes lingered on you as if they were assessing, appraising.

You weren’t sure you liked it, their attention.

Your steps quickened, your head down as you shuffled closer to Roze. She was still as just as much a stranger as they were, but at least you knew her name. 

She tossed you a look over her shoulder, lips curved in a knowing smirk as she led you outside.

The town was in full swing as you stepped out, people milling about everywhere. Women and men, children running amuck, horses tied to posts or clopping noisily down the cobblestone streets. You’d never seen so many people in one place, walking like they had a purpose, a place to be. Some pulled off to the sides, taking solace in the shade as they chatted with others, likely friends or acquaintances.

You couldn’t help but stare, taking it all in. It was a much larger settlement than the one you’d lived in, the one you’d grown up in all your life — the one you hadn’t realized you’d ever leave until a few days ago. The buildings seemed to go for miles; blacksmiths and apothecaries, dressmakers and cobblers, saloons and eateries, bakeries and butchers, tenements and hotels for as far as the eye could see.

A city. You were sure of it. 

It was a word you’d heard before when your husband spoke about business. Trips that took him away every so often, presenting you with the rare occasion where you could take a breath, where you could let your tears fall in private without fear of retribution, of punishment. 

No. You wouldn’t think of him. You wouldn’t let him sully this moment, this place. This town, this city — wherever or whatever it was.

Your fresh start. Your new life.

You walked for some time, following Roze down that main road, the two of you side by side. You were quiet and so was she. Thoughts and questions, curiosities and considerations popped into your head, weaving through your mind, but you didn’t voice them. She seemed content with the silence, and you didn’t want to bother her. Didn’t want to poke the bear or make an enemy of a potential friend.

You really hoped she could be a friend.

She finally came to a stop in front of one of the many buildings, its brown brick facade much like the others around it, sun-faded and streaked with dirt and dust. The blue and white striped awning fluttered in the slight breeze, the two large glass windows beneath it displaying pretty dresses and skirts behind the sand-dusted panes.

“First stop,” She informed you, ushering you towards the door. You swallowed your buzzing excitement, trying your best to tamper your eagerness as you pounded up the wooden stairs and heaved open the heavy door. You must’ve not done too good of a job, though, as you heard Roze chuckle softly behind you as she followed you inside, the little iron bell ringing out to announce your arrival.

You spent quite a chunk of change that day, in that shop. It was the place of your dreams, cluttered with all types of fabrics and mannequins showing off the latest fashions. Bows and lace, ribbons and silk, petticoats and chemises, dresses and stockings — they were everywhere, littering nearly every surface and free corner. It was lively and warm, floral perfume and the faint scent of cotton and leather dusting the air.

It was your most favorite place you’d ever been.

The seamstress and her assistant were happy to oblige you, especially when Roze tossed the pouch of silver onto their counter, their eyes lighting up like freshly struck matches. They ushered you to the back, taking your measurements and draping fabrics over you, fussing over the color, the cuts, the hems and the seams.

You’d walked out with two dresses, three skirts, a new shawl, and a corset stitched with a floral design, one apparently made to wear over a dress, not hidden underneath. They urged you to come back, to make you some custom pieces from scratch. You were hesitant to make any promises no matter how badly you wanted to follow through, knowing that you couldn’t take advantage of any more of Johnny’s generosity.

“She’ll be back,” Roze answered for you, shuffling you out of the door, your bags nearly knocking into the doorframe as you went. You managed a wave to them with a wide smile, feeling all too spoiled and very reluctant to leave.

“Pretty sure you just financed them for the rest of the month,” Roze teased as you walked back down the main street, a teasing lilt to her voice and a smile that confirmed her jest. “Lucky girl.”

Lucky. The word struck you, stuck with you. It was never something you’d felt before, had resonated with. Luck seemed more like a taunt, a jeer — a cruel twist of fate that you’d never experience, something meant for someone else entirely. The opposite end of the card deck. Something utterly out of reach for a girl like you.

But for the first time ever, you began to understand what it meant. You were lucky, weren’t you? Lucky that your legs hadn’t given out on that day, that you’d stumbled into the right bar at the right time with the right people behind those saloon doors. Lucky that Kate had stitched you up, given you a place to rest, food to eat. Lucky that they’d taken you in, had whisked you out of town before you had to answer for your husband’s death.

Lucky that Ghost had taken that fateful shot.

Luck. It was a funny feeling, indeed. New and unfamiliar.

When you arrived back at The Prairie Rose, the sun much lower in the sky, you looked for Johnny, wishing to thank him for his kindness, his gifts — but he was nowhere to be found. Nor was Kyle. Not even Ghost. 

Panic seized you for a moment before Roze answered your unspoken questions and concerns.

“They’re just out for the day. Taking care of some business.” A pat on your shoulder that was supposed to be comforting. “They’ll be back.”

You weren’t sure if that were true. As the sun set, you stayed holed up in your room, your new belongings tucked neatly away into the drawers of the dresser. The music and the revelry of the saloon returned at the first sign of dusk, but you were too afraid to venture downstairs alone, too afraid of getting swept up in the crowd of drunken strangers and wandering eyes with nobody to save you if you needed it.

You thought for sure that they’d left you behind. That Roze and your little excursion had been some sort of ruse, a distraction so that they could slip out and get the hell out of dodge.

But dinner had come, delivered with the same knock on your door from that morning, paid for and taken care of. Roast beef and stew, cornbread and potatoes, green beans and okra. Just as delicious as breakfast had been. It had given you a sliver of hope that they hadn’t abandoned you.

But as night fell, your confidence faltered. You considered slipping out, going down to check if they were just simply drinking at the bar, taking part in the liveliness and debauchery below, but you couldn’t. You were paralyzed, afraid — too scared to find out the truth.

You were sure they weren’t coming back.

Your fingers trembled as you finally undressed, folding up your new blue dress and top before sticking them in the dresser with your other new purchases. You tentatively climbed into bed, the quilt wrapped tightly around your body as you sank into the mattress. The faded notes of the piano, the violin, and the fiddle traveled up through the cracks in the floorboards and those beneath the window, doing little to settle your mind, ease your fears. The oil lamps flickered, the fire that the maid had lit for you adequately warming the room, but you still shivered for an entirely different reason. 

This time yesterday, you’d prayed for your own space, desperate to get away from him. 

Now, you ached for a glimpse of that red metal mask and the big man hidden beneath it.

Sleep wouldn’t come. The sun had fully set, the stars twinkling as the crescent moon rose high in the sky, the fire nearly gone out by now. You weren’t sure what time it was, but it was late, far too late for you to still be awake. 

You’d just about given up hope of his return, beginning to accept the fact that when the sun rose that morning, you would be alone, when you heard those heavy footsteps outside your door.

The hair on the back of your neck prickled, your stomach dropping as your heart thudded wildly in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t twitch — too afraid to break the spell, the possibility that it was all just a figment of your imagination.

The rusted knob twisted, the door creaking open slowly. 

Your breath hitched but you still made no movement, showed no sign that you were awake. Those heavy footsteps thudded against the old wooden boards, slow and leisured like you’d come to know them, expected them to be. You closed your eyes, squeezing them shut, unable to bring yourself to look, to confirm.

You heard the scrape of the poker, the soft stir of ash; felt the rush of heat as the fire came blazing back to life. You heard the sound of fabric rustling, a low grunt as boots were pulled off, as clothes were shed, falling to the floor in a careless heap.

Those footsteps drew closer, pausing right beside the bed. Your eyes stayed shut, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he could hear it. The mattress dipped under his weight, the hulking presence settling in beside you, your back still turned to him.

You could smell him, that familiar, heady scent — leather, smoke, a little bit of liquor; a tinge of tobacco and something tangy, coppery. It made your pulse thud in your neck, relief seep through your veins.

He was here. He hadn’t left, hadn’t abandoned you.

Ghost was here.

It was an overwhelming solace you never thought you’d ever feel, especially not in his presence. Especially not for him. 

You could feel the heat of his body, the closeness of him. There had to have been less than a foot between you, the bed barely big enough to accommodate him, much less the two of you. 

You thought you had him fooled. That he truly believed you were sleeping, that you were not completely and utterly wide awake. 

Then, you felt him. The light caress of his hands in your hair, strands twisted and wrapped around his thick fingers. You choked on a gasp, held in the sharp inhale for dear life. Your eyes still squeezed shut, your lips clamped together as you tried to remain still, tried to regulate your breathing.

He shifted, his chest just mere inches from your back, hands moving down to the exposed skin of your arm, fingertips gently stroking there — a touch so soft, so tender, you almost couldn’t believe it was real, that you weren’t dreaming. A man like him — a man so brutal, so rough and rugged, touching you like you were something precious. Something breakable.

That same hand shifted down to your hip and your heart stuttered, tripping over itself in your chest. Another slight shift of his body had his lips grazing the shell of your ear, warm breaths fanning across your skin, your lashes fluttering instinctively in response.

“Go to sleep.” His voice, lower and deeper than usual, crackled and fractured at the edges; the scent of whiskey and smoke on his tongue, as that hand on your hip tightened in what felt like — what sounded like — a warning. 

A reminder of the beast, the devil that lay at your back, lying in wait. Barely restrained, barely tethered.

You gulped, saying nothing — afraid to speak, to utter even the slightest sound. Unfamiliar heat surged through you, temptation curling around your mind like a thick fog, pooling low in your belly at the rough scrape of his voice — but you shoved it down, bottled it up, forced it somewhere dark and buried deep in the farthest crevices of your mind, places left untouched for months, for years. Certainly untouched during your unhappy marriage.

You did your best to listen to him, to abide by his command, but you couldn’t. Not with him so close behind you, his grip on you long gone but the lingering touch seared into your skin. It drove you mad, made your head spin, but you couldn’t make sense of it, couldn't sort through all the contradictions. Your body’s reaction, your heart’s song, your mind’s momentary lapse in its usual judgment.

It kept you up for hours before you finally succumbed to the heavy weight pressing down on your eyelids.

⋆˖𓄀˖⋆

Three more days passed before Kate and John Price finally arrived.

Three days left wondering if they’d ever make it, if they’d ever join you like they said they would, like Kate had promised. 

Three days left wondering if you were now left in the hands of three men you barely knew for the foreseeable future, a future you couldn’t quite picture as your own.

Three nights sharing the bed with Ghost. Three nights of him slipping into the room late at night, liquor on his tongue. Three nights of him shedding his layers and sliding under the covers beside you. 

Three nights of the brush of his limbs against yours when either of you shifted. Three nights of his abnormally high body heat that chased away the chill in the room once the sun set and the fire burnt out. Three nights of his heavy breathing and yours synchronizing in the darkness.

Three mornings of waking up to an empty bed and wrinkled sheets. Three mornings of him gone without a trace, nothing more than the faint, groggy memory of his arm around your middle left behind.

He didn’t call you out again during those three nights, didn’t accuse you of fake sleeping even though you absolutely were — and you knew that he knew it. He didn’t let his hands roam over your body, twist in your hair. Didn’t say much of anything, actually. In fact, you barely saw him when the sun rose — not in the hotel, not in the saloon, not around town when you and Roze wandered about in the afternoons and window-shopped. You barely saw any of the men, save for Kyle, who you’d run into once. He’d simply smiled, tipped his hat, and hustled out of the hall.

Though, you knew you would’ve had to venture beyond your room if you’d truly wanted to find them, to converse with them. You knew that if you went down into the saloon at dusk, you’d be more than likely to find them at the bar, if Ghost’s strong scent of booze and tobacco every night was any indication. 

But, admittedly, you were still afraid. Still afraid of the large, rowdy crowd, of the leering men and the curious stares — even though the swelling around your eye had gone down significantly, your bruises fading to yellowish, purple tinges. Nobody would likely pay you any mind. 

You hated it, hated that you were still too scared to venture down there, into the drunken, smoke-filled abyss of raucous laughter and loud music. Scared that the men — your men, if you wanted to call them that — wouldn’t want you there. Scared of provoking them, of provoking any intoxicated stranger who came too close, who wanted a piece.

Scared of adding new bruises to your old ones. 

They never invited you, and you were content to stay inside the four walls of what had become your room as soon as the sun began to set. Dinner was always delivered — hot, fresh, and already paid for. A maid always came to light the fire for you, to ignite the oil lamps on each bedside table, providing just enough light for you to read the novel you’d purchased one of those days with Roze. There’d apparently been enough left over from Johnny’s gift to you that you’d been able to, and you were grateful for it.

It’d been a long time since you had time for yourself. No chores to do, no meals to cook, no livestock to attend to. No beatings to take, no glass to sweep, no blood to clean. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d picked up a book — so long that you were honestly worried you’d forgotten how to read.

It would be so easy to give into the slices of peace, of comfort, of the safety you’d been provided thus far. Because you knew, against the voices in the back of your mind whispering your deepest anxieties and darkest fears, that you were safe. For now, at least. 

And what worried you and prevented you from doing so was that you weren’t sure how long it would last. How long it would take before the other shoe dropped. Because it always did. Always. 

With the pillows at your back and the quilt thrown over your legs, you read your novel by the fire and candlelight until your eyes hurt and your vision blurred. You folded the corners of the pages when you reached your stopping point for the night and tucked it under the mattress, afraid what would happen if Ghost found it. If he came back early one night and saw you reading it. Your husband would’ve hated it, would’ve struck you with it before taking it away. 

But he wasn’t Ghost. Ghost wasn’t him. It was something you always had to remind yourself. That — for all the unease he brought you, for all the discomfort and fear he stoked in you — he’d never done anything to hurt you. To prove to you that he was anything like the man you’d been married to. 

But old habits died hard.

That sixth morning since you’d arrived in town, you awoke to the same empty bed and rumpled sheets, that potent, familiar scent still clinging to them — the only proof he’d been there at all.

You went about the routine that you’d adopted since that first, full day. Breakfast was dropped off and devoured. Your hair was brushed, your face was rinsed. You dressed, slipped into your worn boots, and headed downstairs to where Roze usually lounged in one of the leather armchairs in the small lobby.

But, unlike usual, the brown haired beauty you’d come to call your friend wasn’t there.

The frown on your lips formed, your brows crinkling in confusion. She hadn’t mentioned anything the day before, hadn’t said that she wouldn’t be able to join you.

Though, Roze never did say whether or not she’d come into town with you. It was just that she’d always been down there waiting for you since that first time she’d knocked on your door with your nickname on her tongue and a pouch of coins in her satchel.

You tried to shrug off your dismay, your disappointment at her absence — your first real friend in a long time.

When you wandered into the usually empty saloon, though, you found out why. 

“There she is.”

That familiar cadence, that kind and easy tone with the slight accent spanning from another region somewhere in the vast country, called out to you. Your head shot towards the direction it came from, shock and surprise stopping you in your tracks, your footsteps stuttering against the dusty floorboards. There, standing beside the bar with the other men you hadn’t seen much of these days, stood Kate and John Price.

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your lips, the relief that seeped through your body and your bones, relaxing and dropping your unintentionally tensed shoulders. Kate laughed at your visceral reaction, pushing off the edge of the counter with her hip as she headed towards you, wrapping her arms around you in a warm embrace.

“It’s good to see you, honey,” She spoke into your hair as you hugged her back tightly, uncaring of the watchful eyes. She pulled away enough to smooth your hair and examine your face, hands on your shoulders as her gaze flitted from your hairline to jaw to temple. “Eye’s healing up nicely, yeah?”

You nodded, just barely wincing from the faint, leftover ache as her fingers softly brushed over the spot she’d stitched up a week ago now. She smiled, more to herself and her handiwork than to you, before her gaze found yours again. 

“You been okay?” She asked, her voice lowered to an octave that only you could hear, the question only meant for your ears. “They been treating you alright here?”

You didn’t hesitate to nod once more, knowing that even if they hadn’t been, you could tell her. There was something about the woman — another person you barely knew, could barely call your friend — that told you she’d take care of it if they hadn’t. That she would make sure they paid for any digressions they caused you, any lack of care they hadn’t given you in her absence.

“You’re sure?” With the way she scrutinized you, waiting and watching for any signs that indicated the opposite, you knew for a fact that you could unequivocally trust her, that she wouldn’t be okay with anything other than the absolute truth.

“I’m gonna need you to use your words, sweetheart.”

“Christ, Laswell,” Johnny blew out a disbelieving breath from where he stood just a few feet away. “What do ‘ya take us for, barbarians, huh?”

“Yes.” She answered without even turning to look back at him, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. Her eyes seemed to brighten at the sound, one that you weren’t even sure you’d be able to conjure up any day before this one, in that very moment.

“I’m sure,” You assured her, wanting to give the men credit where it was due. You knew, without any specific or direct confirmation from them, that they’d been the ones making sure the meals were delivered to your door, all three a day. They’d given you lodging — albeit, making you shack up with the scariest of them all — and new clothes, courtesy of Johnny. 

“I promise.” 

“Good.” Satisfaction bled into her features before her eyes scanned the rest of you, taking in your new clothes — you again wore the blue one you’d been left that first morning. “Nice dress.”

“Thank you.” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Johnny got it for me. Well, at least I presume so.” When she raised her brow in question, you continued. “He—he left this woman named Roze with a bag of coins to buy me new clothes and this one…this one was left in my room that morning before, so…”

You trailed off, not knowing how to continue. Kate’s eyes widened slightly, head tilting back in what seemed like understanding.

“Ah, I see.” But her eyes, the way they shone with something else, something contradictory — something that looked a bit like surprise and mischief — told a different story entirely. Like she was privy to something you weren’t.

You glanced over her shoulder and met Ghost’s gaze, already fixed right on you.

“So,” You cleared your throat, pulling down the blue sleeves over your wrists, fingers clinging to the fabric for some sense of stability. “You’re here to stay?”

“For as long as we all are, I reckon,” Kate replied, arm thrown over your shoulder as she led you back to the group of men who waited, sitting or standing by the vacant, unused bar counter. No one else was there — no staff milling about, no workers polishing off glasses or cleaning off tables.

John Price tipped his hat to you in a wordless greeting, and you gave him a soft smile in return. 

They spoke for a bit about things you didn’t understand, conversations that sounded like business and profits and loose ends John Price and Kate had finished tying up in your hometown before they’d made the trek here. You tried to listen but ended up tuning them out, picking at the skin around your nails and trying your best to ignore the heavy stare that never left the right side of your face.

“I’m going to take Fawn around town,” Kate eventually announced to them, your ears perking up at the mention of their name for you. “Catch up with her, maybe meet up with Roze. Haven’t seen her in a bit.” 

You noticed the way her eyes traveled over Johnny, lingering on Ghost’s red mask. Like usual, he said nothing. Gave away nothing.

As you waved your goodbyes to the men, as you followed Kate out of the saloon, you couldn’t help but feel like you were missing something.  

You remembered then that you hadn’t gotten to thank Johnny yet for the clothes, for the book — but Kate tugged you on and out of the room before you got the chance. 

a/n: i am so sorry this took so long. this past semester absolutely wore me out, taking my creative process with it. hoping to crank out some more since i love this story and have so many ideas swirling in my head with where to take it. thank you for sticking with me <3 hope you enjoyed this little chapter and i hope to have more for you soon