Chapter 28 Brayden
brAYDEN
I'm pretty sure Jesus didn’t get his ass kicked by a tire iron before his first Christmas, but here I am, limping up the church steps, a battered, budget-version messiah.
Every breath sends a stab through my ribs, and the bruises on my face have settled into a sickly yellow-green pattern that makes me look diseased. Merry fucking Christmas to me.
“You’re scowling again,” Cece whispers, her arm threaded through mine as we approach the entrance.
She’s in a red dress that fits her so damn well it should be illegal, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.
Even with my face still resembling abstract art, I’m the luckiest bastard here just having her beside me.
“I’m not scowling. This is just my face now, courtesy of your ex.”
She flinches, and regret hits me hard. “Sorry, princess. Shitty joke.”
“It’s okay.” Her fingers tighten on my arm. “I’m just glad you’re here. And walking. And not, you know, in a ditch somewhere.”
“Takes more than a spoiled rich boy with daddy issues to put me down.” I tug at the collar of my shirt, which feels more restrictive with every step.
It’s the closest thing to church-appropriate clothing I own—hastily bought yesterday when Cece reminded me about her father’s Christmas Eve service.
Black button-down, dark jeans. This is the peak of my formal wardrobe.
A tie, though? No chance. Even love has its limits.
“Are you sure you're up for this?” Cece asks for the third time since we left the guesthouse. “We can still turn around. Dad would understand.”
“And miss my chance to see Wrecker play Joseph in the nativity? Not a chance.” The mental image of my tattooed brother in a biblical costume has been the only thing getting me through this whole church service idea.
“Besides, your father invited me personally.
Pretty sure that's one of the signs of the apocalypse.”
She laughs, and the sound washes over me—steady, warm, easing something tight inside my chest. A week after Ethan’s attack and her laughter comes easier now.
The shadows that once lived behind her eyes are finally thinning, replaced by something calmer.
Something close to peace. It suits her more than anything she’s ever worn.
“Dad’s been full of surprises lately,” she admits as we reach the church doors.
“Do you mean him stopping by every day to check on me, treating me as if I somehow ended up on his pastoral roster?” I ask, still half-convinced I hallucinated it.
The reverend had shown up daily, awkward as hell, Bible tucked under his arm, making stiff commentary about the weather.
The whole thing had been painful in more ways than my ribs, but I can’t deny I respect the effort.
“Or the church ladies bringing us meals every day?”
Inside, the church is packed to capacity, every pew filled with families in their Christmas best. There’s even a tree near the altar, decked in gold and white ornaments, and enough twinkling lights to make me squint. The air smells of pine, candle wax, and something spicy—cinnamon, maybe.
“Cecelia!” Mrs. Holloway calls, “We saved you seats!”
Cece waves back, tugging me gently toward the front of the church. I hesitate, feeling exposed. Being up front means the entire congregation can stare at my bruised face and judge the tattooed biker who is corrupting their preacher's daughter.
“Front row?” I mutter. “Seriously?”
“Dad wants us up front,” she whispers. “It's a big deal, Brayden.”
The significance isn't lost on me. This is the Reverend's way of publicly declaring his support for Cece, for us. It's a statement to his entire congregation. I can't fuck this up.
“Fine,” I sigh, straightening my shoulders despite the protest from my ribs. “But if someone tries to make me sing, I'm out.”
The Reverend steps up to the pulpit, adjusting his glasses as the murmurs settle into expectant silence.
His eyes sweep the congregation with the authority of a man who has spent his entire life commanding a room without raising his voice.
But when his gaze lands on Cece and me again, I swear something gentler flickers there—quick, but real.
He clears his throat, the microphone crackling softly. “Welcome, everyone, to our Christmas Eve service.”
A few pews back, I hear Mrs. Whitaker inhale sharply, as if preparing to take offense at anything that comes out of his mouth.
Cece squeezes my hand once. My ribs scream, but the warmth in my chest drowns it out.
“Tonight, before we get to our normal festivities,” the Reverend continues, “I want to talk about the unexpected ways grace finds us.”
A ripple of whispered interpretation moves through the sanctuary. Because this is a small town, and everyone here knows exactly who he’s talking about. Hell, even the nativity figurines probably know.
He goes on, voice steady, eyes locked on the back wall but clearly aimed at every gossip in the room.
“Sometimes grace shows up in forms we don’t anticipate.
Sometimes it looks…different from what we pictured.
And sometimes we must learn that the measure of a man is not where he came from, but what he chooses to stand for. ”
Cece’s breath catches beside me, her shoulders going tight, her eyes shining. I can feel her trying not to look at me, because if she does, she’ll cry.
“We are called,” her father continues, “to see people as they are now, not as they used to be. And to recognize courage when we witness it—especially when it protects the vulnerable.”
A beat of silence follows.
Jesus Christ, I think. I’m being sermonically endorsed.
This has to be the highest honor a preacher has ever given a biker without involving an attempted baptism or a pitchfork.
Then the Reverend looks at me directly. Not a glare.
Not disapproval. Something closer to gratitude.
And for the first damn time in my life, I don’t look away.
Cece’s fingers tremble in mine. Her thumb brushes over the back of my hand and that one small touch hits harder than Ethan’s tire iron ever could.
I lean close enough that only she can hear me. “Guess your dad just gave me the church-approved stamp,” I murmur.
Cece bites her bottom lip to hide a smile. “Don’t get cocky,” she whispers back. “It’s still church. You’re only half a miracle.”
I grin, ribs aching, heart steady. If this is what a Christmas miracle feels like?
Yeah. I’ll take it.
The Reverend clears his throat softly, letting the weight of his words settle over the room. “And with hearts open to that kind of grace, let us prepare ourselves in song.”
The choir begins singing some hymn about angels, their voices rising in harmony that actually sounds pretty decent for a small-town church.
I glance at Cece and find her mouthing the words, her face soft in the glow of the candles.
Something tightens in my chest that has nothing to do with my injured ribs.
“You okay?” she whispers, catching me staring.
“Better than okay,” I murmur back, squeezing her hand.
The final notes float through the sanctuary, fragile and bright, settling over the congregation like fresh snowfall. As the choir takes their seats, the Reverend steps forward again, hands resting lightly on the pulpit.
“For many of us,” he begins, his gaze sweeping the room before landing—unmistakably—on our pew, “this season is a reminder that light finds us in the moments we expect it least. I find myself reflecting on the true meaning of grace,” he begins, his gaze sweeping over the congregation.
“We often speak of God's grace as something freely given, unearned, and undeserved. But how many of us truly understand what it means to extend that same grace to others?”
I shift uncomfortably, wondering if this is where he subtly calls me out as the church’s resident sinner. Mrs. Holloway leans forward slightly beside Cece, nodding emphatically.
“Recent events in our community have forced me to examine my own understanding of grace,” the Reverend continues, his attention settling briefly on me.
“When my daughter was falsely accused, when violence touched our lives, I witnessed something remarkable. I saw grace extended from the most unexpected places.”
My throat goes tight, the kind of tight that sneaks up on you and hits harder than any punch. I shift in the pew, the wood groaning under me as I try—unsuccessfully—to ease the sharp stab in my ribs. Doesn’t matter. Every word coming out of the Reverend’s mouth hurts more.
“A group of men—men I had judged harshly, men I had deemed unworthy of God’s love—showed my family more Christian charity than many who sit in these pews every Sunday.”
The sanctuary reacts instantly. Whispers surge through the room, rustling through the congregation like wind whipping through tall grass—soft but impossible to ignore.
Some folks look curious. Others look scandalized.
One woman clutches her pearls with such force I’m shocked they don’t snap and rain onto the floor.
But I don’t look at them. I look at him. Because I’ve heard a lot of sermons in my life—most against my will—but never one aimed straight at me.
The Reverend continues, voice gaining strength with every word.
“They gave their time. Their labor. Their hearts. Not for recognition or praise…but because someone in need asked for help. And they showed up.”
Another wave of murmurs. Another shift of shoulders.
But I hardly notice. My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with cracked ribs. Because for the first time, I think he sees us—sees me—not as a threat or a mistake, but as something that might actually belong beside his daughter.