I lift my hand to the area, but don’t feel anything. My fingers blindly reach for the knife holstered at my hip. The shiny blade gleams in the low light. It provides an adequate view of the hickeys decorating my delicate flesh. There are at least five of them.
This is why I should always check my reflection before going out in public. The rough patches on my cheek and jaw were obvious to the touch, but not very visible. There’s no missing the red marks Byron gifted me like a brand.
“That son of a—”
Frannie makes another startled noise. “We’re not supposed to play with knives. They’re very sharp and can hurt us.”
“Oh, I’m not playing.” But I put the weapon away for her fragile mind’s sake.
“Why do you have a knife?”
“For protection.”
“Can I have one?”
I choke on my saliva. “No way, kiddo. You’re too young.”
“But you’re young too.”
My palm lifts to flatten against my chest. “Awww, thank you.”
She stares at me expectantly.
“Oh, umm… you need to be a certain age.”
“How many years old?”
“Uhh…” I stall again. Six is when I got my first knife, but that doesn’t seem appropriate or safe. “Ten? Maybe twelve? You should ask your dad.”
“M’kay.” Ronnie spins on her heel, ready to do just that.
“Wait!”
Shit, I need to think before I speak. This formerly innocent child already wants to cover her skin in tattoos thanks to me. Byron is going to kill me if she asks for a knife. Maybe we can call it even for the marks he left all over me. It’s a small miracle Ronnie didn’t press for the details of how those got there.
“You can’t go now. I was about to get on Greta.”
“Oh, yeah! Duh.” She returns to her spot at the horse’s head, gathering the lead rope in her tiny hand.
The moment has finally arrived. I gulp and test my footing on the step ladder. Ronnie was kind enough to drag it over to me. Usually I would’ve been offended at the assumption I needed it, but my current condition has humbled me.
My body trembles slightly as I secure my boot in the stirrup. A sharp ache radiates through my muscles when I reach for the saddle horn. I bite back a curse. That pain increases intostabbing cramps from the swinging motion needed to get my leg over. But then I’m astride Greta and the deep throb dulls into a manageable twinge.
“Phew, I did it.” My fingers brush fake sweat off my forehead.
Ronnie beams at me like a proud teacher. “Okay, hold on.”
I snort. That sounds familiar. The amusement vanishes when Greta begins to walk. Her gait is smooth, but I’m jostled to and fro faster than I prefer.
“Whoa! Why are we moving?”
She giggles. “That’s the whole point, silly.”
“Uh, can’t I just… sit on her to start?”
“Nope.”
“Go slow,” I demand.