29. Briar
brIAR
T he hush of the castle settles heavily around me as I pad down the stairs, bare feet silent against stone worn smooth by centuries of steps. I follow the faint sounds of life until the corridor widens into our family’s living room.
I didn’t leave my room with the intention of winding up here. All I knew was that I couldn’t take one more minute of tossing and turning in my bed, unable to sleep after the longest day of my life.
It seems my feet brought me to the only place my heart wants to be right now.
A sprawling black couch dominates the center of the room, the cushions sagging from years of use.
A pool table gleams under the low light nearby, the felt marked with chalk and the dents of a hundred games.
Darts stick crookedly on a board mounted to the far wall, evidence of my parents’ competitive streaks.
There weren’t many nights that I felt a need to participate and prove my skills in those games, but my mind is filled with the memories of sitting on the couch and watching them all from my little corner. The laughs, the smile, and the good-natured taunting.
It takes my breath away to think about how different the room feels now, almost like we’re in an alternate reality. It tugs at something deep inside me, a reminder of the safety and warmth I haven’t felt since before I stepped through that portal into New York.
I hover at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly feeling so small in the vast space.
My fathers are all here, scattered across the room in silence now.
Father sits as still as a stone statue carved and deposited onto the couch, Papa leans against the pool table with a cue in hand, resting against the floor.
Then there’s Dad, pacing near the dartboard, his knife flashing as he twirls it.
They look up together when they sense me, three pairs of eyes so achingly familiar.
My shoulders droop, as if my body knows before I do, that I don’t need to put on a front anymore. I don’t need to act like I’m okay, or that I have a handle on my emotions for their sake. I’m safe with them.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, knowing I ran away from them earlier, full of shame for leaving Mom behind. All I know is that I can’t be alone right now, even if I can’t find the words still.
Elias was right…what we did didn’t fix anything. When it all came rushing back, it was so much worse knowing that there is no real relief from the grief.
Maybe it makes me childish, but I just need my dads now.
A small, shaky whimper falls from me at that realization and all three of them move at once.
They surround me like three shadows and shields ready to hold the world and all my problems at bay. Papa’s arm slips firmly around my shoulders tugging me into him as Dad’s palm cups the back of my head, and Father’s fingers catch my chin to tilt my face up.
“We are here for you, Briar,” he murmurs in an unusually rough voice, like he’s struggling to get the words out.
It’s then I notice the tears gathering in his eyes, faintly shimmering in the light.
“We are so happy you’re home, honey,” Papa whispers at my side before pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
It feels wrong to accept their love, knowing not all of our family is home because of me and my choices. The weight of them surrounding me and the sheer love in their presence presses down on me, and I can’t hold the flood of emotion back any longer.
My body begins to shake just as the dam breaks within. Hot tears spill down my cheeks as I collapse into them, held tightly between their bodies, the crush of their love grounding me in a way nothing else has. My sobs tear out raw, every one shaking me apart as I cling to them.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, voice fracturing under the force of my guilt. “It’s all my fault. She’s trapped because of me.”
The words echo off the stone walls as I repeat them over and over, and yet the weight of their arms wrapped around me never falters.
The grief roars through me until the only thing left as the tears subside is my broken, raw voice scraping out, “It’s all my fault.”
“No.” Father’s voice is sharp enough to slice through the storm of guilt clouding my mind, leaving no room for argument. His hand cups my jaw once more, tilting my tear-streaked face up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
They are unflinching and narrowed, the absolute picture of certainty as he says, “I need you to truly hear me when I say this is not your fault, Briar. They took her and put her in chains. They alone will answer for what they did to you and your mother.”
The finality in his tone stokes a rage inside me that overcomes the sadness as his hand drops from my chin.
I suck in a deep, shaky breath. For the first time since coming home, it’s not paired with a crushing weight of guilt.
He’s right . I may have been the reason she was there to begin with, but I’m not the reason she was hurt and captured. They did that.
My head nods absentmindedly as I process those words, trying to cement them as the truth I cling to moving forward.
The words are simple, but apparently I just needed the truth from their perspective.
I feared more than anything that they would blame me for their true mate being ripped from them.
I couldn’t face them earlier because I didn’t want them to prove me right in thinking that. I wouldn’t have been able to go on.
I should have had more faith in them. In our family and our love for one another.
“We will get her back,” Dad vows, taking over the conversation and my focus. His thumb brushes a stray tear from my cheek, the soft gesture at odds with the harsh edge of his voice. “A plan is already being formed.”
The mention of a plan lights my brain up with a roar of endorphins.
Action. That’s what I need to focus on.
The three of them ease back just enough to give me room to breathe without letting me slip away entirely. I drag in a ragged breath as the hollow ache inside me fills with fury alone. It roars in my chest, eating through the numbness and grief until my hands curl into fists.
“I want to know what the plans are,” I demand, my voice shaking but fierce. “Tell me what you’re doing to get her back.”
The three of them hesitate. Father’s brow furrows, Papa’s hand lifts to rub against the back of his neck, and Dad’s jaw ticks as their gazes flick between each other.
“Are you sure you want to be involved and hear about this?” Papa asks. “None of us would blame you if you didn’t.”
I can read between the words they are saying, to what they’re too afraid to voice.
Are you sure you want to talk about the people who tortured you?
Are you sure you want to hear about a plan that would take us right back to that compound?
Are you sure you’re strong enough for that talk?
Bitterness surges up, hot and choking. I let it spill out alongside every ounce of hatred for Terrance coursing through me. “I want to be the one to end him. I need to reclaim that piece of myself.”
My jaw clenches as I brace for it–for the sharp refusal, the forbidding decree of a king and father, and the three of them shutting me down before I can breathe another word.
But silence stretches instead. A minute passes as they look at each other in unspoken conversation, likely talking through their mental bond.
I can hardly breathe through the tension. The fact that they didn’t immediately say no is shocking enough to allow me to think that maybe, just maybe, they’re actually considering my demand.
Papa turns back to me, his blue eyes shining with confidence as his head dips once in a nod. “Then we have a lot to talk about. Let’s sit.”
For a heartbeat I can’t move or breathe. I’d braced myself for their refusal, for the crushing weight of their protectiveness to slam down and cage me all over again. It’s what they and Mom always do. My entire life they’ve wrapped me in rules and have loved me so fiercely it felt like chains.
But not this time. Not when it matters more than ever.
Relief slams into me so hard that my legs shake as my chest splits open with the rush of air I drag in. For the first time they aren’t trying to tuck me back into a place of safety like I’ll break if the world so much as breathes on me.
Maybe they’re allowing it because the world did touch me. It altered me forever, ripping off that blindfold I’d walked around with.
I’ve seen the malice dripping off the human hunters. I’ve felt every lash of their disgust and condemnation. I’ve seen the proof of their exploitative plans filling a vat to the brim with my blood.
I will carry those memories with me for the rest of my life, and there’s nothing that will ever take the trauma fully away.
There’s no amount of coddling that can protect me from what I’ve already felt.
I went into that world as a sheltered princess and came back as a woman who now knows just how ugly life can be.
They must realize that now.
They’re seeing me as I am–not a daughter to be protected, not a princess to be guarded, but as a woman who has already been broken and still stood back up, ready to fight.
My chest burns with the weight of their acceptance, but it isn’t from grief. This is steadier and healing. A thread of respect from them and their belief in my ability to make my own choices.
I nod back, swallowing the emotions clogging my throat and whisper, “Thank you.”
I may not have made the best decision in going to the human realm when I did, but we all know that that mistake will alter my path and choices moving forward. Never again will I put myself in the way of harm like that.
We all move toward the couch and the cushions dip under our weight. The familiar scent of leather and wood polish mingles with the metallic tang of blood from the nearby kitchen.