Chapter 27 Jude
Jude
“FIVE MINUTES LEFT. ARE YE SCARED NOW, LASS?”
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Weight of the World”
Whenever Rory pulls his shit, from whacking her ass with the rolling pin to sticking his fingers in her scone batter, her eyes seek Raphael’s. Like she’s secretly asking his permission.
All I know is he doesn’t step in. Like he knows she can handle herself.
Other than her dancing around in the kitchen in that pretty dress, her castigating Rory arouses my blood and surges it south of the equator. I may have come twice while stealing five orgasms from her in the shower, but I can’t get enough of her.
I’ll never forget what she looked like when she dropped the sheets after Raphael ordered her to strip. Fuck, our goddess…she has a body that just won’t quit. Full, rounded breasts with barely a thread’s gap between them. Immaculate rosy nipples and a light flush of quarter-sized areola.
She could be anyone’s fantasy. But add the ample bottom and curvy hips, she’s the ultimate fantasy.
Love the subtle plumpness of her stomach and thighs visible through the dress.
She’s not disproportionately unhealthy. The light speckling of freckles only enhances her vivid hazel eyes.
And those violet curls falling to just above her waist. Skin like an angel.
Exquisite. Celestial. Angelic. They all seem too tame to describe her.
Having explored the wonderland between her thighs, I can testify how heavenly she is.
Despite her shyness and how she rubbed one arm, she didn’t cower before us in that room.
Just like now—with Rory—she might tense, but she doesn’t make herself smaller.
She doesn’t even look at the floor. Whatever my Babydoll has been through, like the scars on her wrist, it’s clear she has conquered demons. Perhaps…more than us.
More than conquer, she can play with the goddamn demons. She does it with him, leaning in. They feed on each other. Fire and gasoline.
At one point, I notice Vincent darting his eyes to their corners, glancing at me, muscle ticking in his clenched jaw.
His chest tight. For fuck’s sake!—I’ll discuss Kinship law with Raphael later when it comes to the fighter.
Still fighting to this day, still not understanding he doesn’t need to.
Doesn’t need to put up a fucking front. Not with me.
Not when I was the one who patched him up after all those fights. Just like I patch everyone up. I pick up all the pieces Raphael leaves.
Seth fixes fences. I fix flesh and blood and bone. But I can’t fix Vincent. And the broody bastard doesn’t need it—if only he knew that.
At some point, his shit needs to end. Briella is cracking through his crusty exterior. The cracks will allow me to break right through his armor.
Rory and Briella now stand on opposite sides of the kitchen, waiting for their scones to finish baking.
Every now and then, she sways her hips, her glowing eyes stray to Rory as he downs more coffee.
Grumbling under his breath, he fills his tumbler again, then glances around, searching for his Scotch. It’s behind her.
He crosses the distance, invading her space, then jerks a finger and barks, “Whiskey.”
“Of course,” she says brightly, sliding away a few inches.
The moment he turns around, she grabs a nearby wooden spoon and whacks his ass.
“Fuck!” Seth blows laughter through his cheeks, coughing on his popcorn. “What a woman!”
Rory turns on a heel, growls, and pins her to the counter before she can escape. Vincent falls into a crouch, ready to charge. Since I’m closest to him, I touch his shoulder, appreciating how he calms for me. Chest no less tight. Shoulders no less tense. But he relaxes.
Reaching around her, Rory grips the whiskey, not denying himself the opportunity to grind that 12-inch cock against her pelvis like a prediction. She simply smiles at him as he uncaps the whiskey and takes another swig.
What the fuck is she up to?
Once Rory moves to the other side of the kitchen, Vincent comes out of his crouch.
I survey his ink. Bloody roses and skulls.
A serpent coiled around his neck, its fangs bared and tail wrapped tight around his throat like a noose.
I may have seen his tattoos a thousand times, but he’s never shared their meaning.
War stories, etched in ink and pain. We’re both warriors.
I’m just more…controlled, rigid, and militant.
It’s why Raphael and I work well as somewhat equal partners. Vincent could, too, if he learned to shed his armor. I gave up my armor the night Raphael came for me, saved me from a life of imprisonment or…a quick death by hanging in a cell.
Fucking in a ditch with the fires of the prison transport and the blood he spilled in our wake was one of the best nights of my life. He owned me from that night.
Rory fixates on Briella, tapping his finger along the counter like some attempted mind fuck. She tilts her head and…oh, fuck, her eyes roam all over his body. His mostly settle on her tits.
“Five minutes left. Are ye scared now, Lass?” he taunts, pouring another splash of whiskey into his coffee.
She shakes her head, her beam practically shining. “Even if I lose, it will be a great responsibility, an honor even, for you to feed me, big Red. Nurture me.” She touches her chest, making a show of it by gushing. “Maybe you can get in touch with your feminine side.”
Growling, he sets the whiskey bottle with a loud thud on the counter.
He’s downed half the bottle by now. Wonderful.
He gets crazier on whiskey. The only reason Raphael allows it is because it helps Rory get the crazy out.
Sometimes, he gets flirty like he is with Briella.
Even now, his heady blue eyes are fixed on her while he hums an old Scottish tune, nearly ready to break into song.
Other times, he can pick a fight with any of us just for breathing wrong, growling threats, ready to throw down. The kind of man who’ll dance with you, then burn the building down if the music stops.
The bastard will strip down to his skin and bolt into the woods like a goddamn wolf and return like he rode the pack and got bored.
So, why do I believe Briella is the she-wolf he could never hope to tame?