Chapter 16 #2
Back home, I did everything in my power to keep Brie from unraveling.
The minute we crossed the threshold, I insisted she go straight to the bedroom and get out of her day clothes.
I hung up her jacket, collected the mason jar toddy, and told her I’d holler when the bath was ready.
I wanted to fuck her so bad it made my teeth hurt, but I’d made her a promise: tonight was about rest, not ravaging.
I ran the tub long and hot, pouring in half a bottle of the artisanal bath soak I’d picked up from the farmers’ market last Saturday—smelled like cedar and bluebonnet honey, the kind of scent that clung to skin for hours after.
I flicked the switch on the little Bluetooth speaker we kept by the sink.
Out poured the sound of distant thunderstorms, heavy on the rain, just enough bass in the thunder to trick your heartbeat into slowing down.
I set out a towel for her, extra thick and plush, and lit one of the candles from her stash—a white, jar thing that smelled like exotic flowers.
She appeared in the doorway, hair twisted up, face scrubbed bare.
There was something so naked about her in that moment, not just the way she was wearing my old t-shirt and nothing else, but the way she looked at me like I was the only thing holding her together.
She took in the scene, the effort, and said, “You are absolutely precious, Finn Walsh.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” I said, and kissed her on the forehead. “Now get in before I toss you in.”
She grinned, dropped the shirt, and slid into the bath. She hissed at the heat for a second, then leaned back, eyes going heavy-lidded. “Feels like a crime to be this spoiled.”
“It’s called being loved,” I told her, as I handed her the toddy already the perfect temp, and shut the door, giving her the privacy she claimed she needed but never actually wanted.
While she soaked, I stripped the bed and put on the “hotel sheets”—the Egyptian cotton ones she’d insisted we buy after one night in a Dallas Four Seasons.
I even remembered to turn on the electric blanket, so the bed would be warm when she crawled into it.
By the time she came out, wrapped in a towel with the ends of her hair still wet, I was sitting on the edge of the mattress waiting for her.
She crawled in next to me, still smelling of honey and rain, and nudged my thigh with her foot. “Are you gonna give me a massage, or do I have to beg?”
I smiled. “Babe, you never have to beg. But it’s more fun when you do.”
She rolled her eyes, then sprawled belly-down on the sheets, arms folded under her head.
I warmed my hands by rubbing them together, then started at her shoulders, working my thumbs into the knots that always built up just below her neck.
Her skin was warm and damp, and she hummed with every hard press, the sound somewhere between a purr and a sigh.
I worked my way down her back, slow and methodical, focusing on each muscle like it owed me money.
When I reached her lower back, she arched, shifting her hips and making it impossible not to notice the swell of her ass, the way her thighs parted ever so slightly in invitation.
I dug my thumbs into the tops of her glutes, working the tension loose.
I kept kneading her, working my way down her legs, kneading her calves, then circling back up to start again. The second time I made it to her ass, I slipped my hand between her legs, cupping her mound and feeling the heat radiate off her.
She pressed her hips into the mattress, moaning softly. “Mmm, Finn.”
“Just making sure you’re relaxed,” I teased, but my cock was so hard it was an act of God not to climb on top of her and take her right there.
Instead, I kept my word to myself. I focused on her, on the way her body responded to every touch, every press.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I rolled her onto her back, spreading her legs and settling between them.
She looked up at me, eyes glazed, lips parted, and for a second all I could do was stare at her—this beautiful, broken, perfect woman who’d let me be the one to put her back together.
I bent down, kissing her belly, her hips, the insides of her thighs.
She was already wet, slick and hot and eager for me, and I licked her slowly, savoring every taste.
She bucked against my mouth, hands tangled in my hair, her moans getting louder, more desperate.
I kept her on the edge for what felt like an eternity, then finally let her come, her whole body tensing under my tongue.
I didn’t stop. I licked and sucked, pushing her through a second orgasm, this one leaving her limp and panting, her hands falling away from my head. When she was done, I cleaned her up with a warm cloth, then pulled her into my arms and tucked the blanket around us both.
She fell asleep almost instantly, her head on my chest, her breath warm and even. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the last of the tension slip away. For the first time in days, I let myself relax.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, it was deep night—the kind of dark that made the world feel hollowed out and abandoned. The clock read 2:37. Brie was still asleep, breathing steady, but something was wrong. I could smell it before I heard it.
There was a tang in the air, sharp and metallic, like a fresh cut or a struck match. It didn’t belong. I sat up, sniffed the air, but couldn’t place it. A second later, Brie started to whimper.
It began as a low moan, barely audible, then built into a soft, desperate chant. “No, no, no. You won’t take him from me. You won’t—” Her voice broke on the last word, and she started to sob, fists clenched tight in the sheets.
I shook her gently. “Brie. Babe. You’re dreaming.”
She gasped awake, eyes wild, and for a second she didn’t recognize me. Then she slumped against my chest, shaking. “It was… it was so real.”
“What happened?”
She shook her head, wiped at her face. “Can’t remember. Just… darkness. And then I thought I’d lost you.”
I held her close, stroking her hair, whispering nonsense until the trembling stopped. After a minute, she drifted off again, her breath ragged but settling.
But I didn’t sleep. I lay there, staring into the dark, the smell of blood and steel still hanging in the air. I’d never heard of a wolf who could bring a scent back from their dreams.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t done with us.
And I’d be damned if I let it take her away.
The next morning, I got Brie up and out the door before the sun had fully risen.
She’d barely touched her toast and was in a foul mood, not her usual “I hate mornings, kill me now” routine, but the tight-lipped, no-jokes kind of bad.
I left her at the gallery with a kiss and a promise to pick her up at five.
She gave me a look that said she wasn’t sure she’d last until noon.
I went home and did what any rational, not-at-all-paranoid man would do: I spent an hour crawling around the baseboards and HVAC vents of our house, sniffing for gas leaks or anything metallic, checking the circuit breaker for shorts, running every tap and drain just in case.
Nothing. The place was clean, almost aggressively so.
The only thing I found was the lingering scent of her on the sheets, mixed with cedar and a memory of sweat.
After exhausting every possible home hazard, I gave up and went out to the pasture.
A section of barbed wire was down along the west fence, probably knocked over by one of our idiot steers trying to reach the greener grass on the other side.
I loaded the tools into the bed of the truck and set out, knowing the job would take half the day at least.
The labor was pure, simple, and honest. The only things that mattered were the heft of the post driver, the way the wire bit my palms through the gloves, and the burn in my shoulders with each swing.
I let my mind go blank, except for the occasional intrusive thought about last night: the sharp tang of metal, the panic in Brie’s voice as she fought her invisible enemy.
It made no sense, any of it. But sense was a luxury. I’d spent most of my life making do with the scraps of logic fate tossed my way.
The job took longer than it should have, mostly because I kept stopping to watch the clouds roll in.
There was a storm on the horizon, a thick blue wall with the promise of lightning in the air.
My wolf always got restless before a storm, and today was no exception.
I could feel the hair on my arms standing up, taste the ozone on my tongue.
I hammered the last post into place and wiped the sweat off my face with a bandana. My hands were raw, my shirt soaked through, but I didn’t care. I’d take honest pain over the ache in my head any day.
On the drive back, I turned the problem over and over: Was I going to tell Bronc?
The man was my Alpha, and my friend, but there were things you just didn’t share.
Especially when it made you sound weak. No one ever said that out loud, but it was the rule.
If you couldn’t handle your mate’s nightmares, you didn’t deserve her.
But then I thought about what Pearl had said. How Brie wasn’t like the others. How she needed more than just a strong arm or a quick tongue. She needed someone who’d stand between her and the whole damn world, even if the fight was inside her own head.
I resolved right then that if tonight was anything like last night, I’d go to Bronc. I’d ask for help. I didn’t care if it made me look soft. I cared about her.
By the time I got back to the house, I had just enough time for a quick shower and a change of clothes before heading to the gallery. I didn’t want to show up looking like I’d been chewed on by the ranch, but I also didn’t want to be late. Brie hated waiting.
I parked across the street, took a deep breath, and walked in. The gallery was a hive of activity—two workers were painting the trim along the east wall, another was setting up tables in the back for the opening. And there, at the far end of the main room, was Brie.
She was perched halfway up a stepladder, adjusting a massive landscape painting on the wall. Lysander was at the foot of the ladder, hands on her hips to steady her as she leaned out, tacking a label into place.
I saw red.
It was irrational; I knew that. The man was harmless. But there was something about the way his fingers dug into her waist, the way he looked up at her with that easy, practiced smile. I wanted to rip him off the ladder and toss him through the plate-glass window.
Lysander noticed me first. He gave a little wave, then said something to Brie, who looked down and beamed.
She scrambled down the ladder, dropped the hammer onto the table, and hurried over. “You’re early,” she said, eyes bright.
I shrugged. “Missed you. And I wanted to see the progress.”
She looped an arm through mine, guiding me toward the back office. Lysander trailed after, all grace and detachment, but his eyes never left us.
Once we were in private, Brie hugged me hard, burying her face in my chest. I held her, breathing her in, the jealousy already fading.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
She nodded against me. “Better now.” Then, quietly: “Thank you. For last night. And for not making a big deal out of it.”
I squeezed her. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s what we do.”
She pulled back, smiling. “Lysander wants us to come to dinner tonight. Celebratory, he says. Are you okay with that?”
I considered it. The smart move would be to decline, plead exhaustion or an early morning. But the thought of leaving her alone with him made my skin crawl. So I nodded.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
She grinned, then stood on tiptoes to kiss me. “You’re the best.”
As we left the office, Lysander was waiting by the door. He smiled at Brie, then shot me a look—something like respect, something like a challenge.
I matched it.
We walked out together, the three of us, into the late afternoon sun. The storm was closer now; the wind picking up, electricity crawling over the skin of my arms.
I didn’t know what was coming. But whatever it was, I’d face it head-on. For her.
Even if it killed me.