Chapter 39 Briella
Briella
I CAN’T SETTLE. I CAN’T LET MY GUARD DOWN. I CAN NEVER STOP RUNNING.
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Buried Alive”
“Bitter”
“Wanted”
“Forever Damned”
Istill can’t stand Rory, but I’m not afraid of him anymore.
While he hasn’t touched me for the past two weeks, he’s given me a new butt plug with oil every few days when I have to share his bed.
Like I will let him get anywhere near my fucking ass again! I’d sooner eat a dozen razors.
It hasn’t stopped me from using the butt plugs whenever he’s not around. Just in case. I can’t afford to let down my guard if they decide to put me through any new initiations.
But…there’s something different in the way he carries me now.
Not over his shoulder but in this honeymoon hold.
Strong. Not tender but possessive. No. More obsessive.
He might get me all hot and bothered, but it’s obvious I do the same…
if not more, since he can’t even handle my random singing and humming.
I guess I feel a small amount of power in it—enough power for me to lay my head against his shoulder. The prominent vein in his neck throbs, and his Adam’s apple bobs, but that’s all he betrays.
It’s not until we’re about a hundred feet into the woods that he finally sets me down and starts undoing his belt. He’s pumping iron down there. My breath stutters. That hot, wicked gleam in his eye returns.
“Are ye going to be a good girl, get on your knees, and lift that skirt up? Or will big Red have to make you?” His brows dance as he swipes off the belt.
I gulp, but I know Raphael hasn’t given his permission. I only need to buy a little time because Vincent said he’d tell. The psycho-alpha is probably on his way already.
Forcing a sweet smile, I say, “I will be good, but could you please let me pee first?” It’s not a lie.
He shrugs, waving a hand. “Go ahead. Not the first time I’ve seen you piss yourself,” he cruelly retorts.
I refrain from any smart remarks and wrinkle my nose. “Oh, good grief, give me a little dignity and let me go behind that bush.” I gesture to the clump of brush nearby.
He cocks his head, smirking to one side. “I was under the impression you had no dignity left after I fucked your arse.”
“Rory, come on,” I opt for a different strategy. “Just give me a minute of privacy. It won’t take me long.”
He rolls his eyes and snorts. “Fine. Maybe you’ll accidentally wipe yourself with poison ivy.”
“You wish.” I grin.
“You run. I’ll chase, Firecracker.”
I retreat, flipping him off, hearing his close-mouthed chuckle. After hurrying behind the thick brush, I quickly do my business. I can see him about ten yards away. But I’m not running. Not yet.
Anxiety clogs my throat because I’ve been preparing. I couldn’t get the gold bar back, but Raphael doesn’t know I buried another in the garden behind my cottage. I’ve managed to smuggle a few of my clothing items, hiding them deep in the hayloft.
When I leave, I’ll steal one of the horses since Vincent has been teaching me to ride—get as far away as I can, then go on foot to the nearest town. I’ll get the gold bar later.
Finished, I stand, tugging my skirt back down. I glance back through the branches. He’s still there, lounging against a tree like some smug, redheaded devil, idly flicking his belt against his leg. Prick. He probably wants to spank me first. Why does heat flood my cheeks and lower at the thought?
Stupid, dumb trauma bond—with the biggest and dumbest.
I’m about to head back when a soft rustle at my feet makes me freeze. I whip around, heart leaping into my throat, and there it is.
A skunk.
An actual black-and-white-striped skunk, tail arched, beady eyes locking on mine.
“Oh shit—” I gasp, stumbling back a step. It turns, lifts that fluffy tail, and I slap my hands over my face with a yelp, already bracing for the god-awful chemical death cloud about to hit me.
Nothing. Well—almost nothing. Instead, a tiny, high-pitched little fart squeaks out.
I blink, lowering my hands. What…?
The skunk turns back around, like what? You want more? And I swear I see the tiniest glimmer of smugness in its little eyes. But there’s no smell. No sharp sting in my nostrils. No stinging eyes.
Oh my god! Aww, the poor thing. He’s de-scented.
Someone either lost it or dumped it out here like trash. A de-scented skunk can’t survive in the wild: too friendly, too defenseless. Just like this little guy. Almost a baby, its body still small and soft, fur a little scruffy.
I crouch down, but the little guy starts to move away. Remembering what I have in my pocket, I dig into my skirt, fingers brushing the squished remains of a Fig Newton I stashed after breakfast. I peel it free and hold it out.
“Hey, little guy…you like figs?”
His tiny feet shuffle closer, lured by the sweet, syrupy scent. The skunk’s nose twitches, and a moment later, he sniffs eagerly before taking the bite from my hand.
“Bloody Christ, woman, did ye have a shite to do?”
I roll my eyes, but a wicked, perfect idea blooms. A grin curls up the corner of my mouth. “Come here, little stinker.” I stroke its fur, and it arches its back…similar to a cat.
After I give him the last of the fig Newtons, it stays, curious, trusting, nose twitching. Skunks are actually quite friendly, especially if they’ve been reared as a pet since birth. So, I scoop him up, and he settles against my chest like we’ve known each other for years.
“You and me, we’re about to have some fun,” I whisper.
I ease around the brush, cradling the skunk in one arm. “Oh, Rory!” I sing-song. “Look at what I found!”
He turns, eyes narrowing—then widening like twin saucers when he sees the ball of black and white fur in my hands.
“Oh fuck no!” Rory staggers back, eyes glued to the skunk’s raised tail as I angle its butt directly at him.
The little guy obliges, letting out another tiny poot.
Rory yelps, nearly tripping over himself as he bolts back, waving a hand in front of his face. “Goddammit, Briella! Are ye mad?!”
His brows thread low as I double over, laughing. The skunk cozies deeper into my arms. “This little guy just happens to be de-scented, dumbass. Someone lost him or dumped him.”
I look down at the poor, sweet skunk as it nestles into my arms. It makes a gentle churr sound, almost like a tiny engine purring. Nose buried in the crook of my arm, it snuffles quietly.
“Yeah, you liked that Fig Newton, huh?” I murmur, my heart softening in a way it hasn’t in weeks. The skunk lets out a breathy eep, as if agreeing, and I swear I catch the faintest sound of tiny teeth clicking in contentment.
Rory glares, red-faced and furious. He tightens his grip on the belt and storms toward me. “You think this is funny?”
I shrug and smile up at him. “Pretty funny. You know, like the time I—”
Rory cuts off my words with one strong chokehold, siphoning my breath. But even though the little skunk tenses, I keep my hold as tender as possible.
And then…a hand clamps around Rory’s arm.
Raphael.
I hadn’t even heard him approach, but there he is—tall, dark, eyes hard as green stone, always dressed impeccably with Jude, Seth, and Vincent a few steps behind him.
Raphael’s grip tightens, holding Rory’s wrist mid-swing. “No, Rory,” he says, calm but hard as steel.
Rory’s jaw works, teeth grinding. He yanks his arm free with a growl and storms off toward the butcher shed, belt dragging in the dirt behind him.
Good riddance.
I look up at Raphael, cradling the skunk against my chest, hopeful. “Can I keep him?” I ask. “Please? I’ll be his momma. I’ll do everything.”
Raphael studies me, head tilting slightly, unreadable as always. I hold his gaze…on the verge of tears because of how much I want the skunk.
Finally, Raphael gives me a single, sharp nod. “You may keep it.”
I let out a squeal, nearly dancing. Instead, I feel mischievous and steal Raphael’s newsboy cap and plop it on my head. There is that tug on the corners of his mouth again. A subtle smile of approval.
Beaming, I pet the skunk’s head. “I think Pew Pew will be a good name for you. Like the French skunk.” Even if he can’t actually pew.
Jude chuckles, shaking his head. “Leave it to our little Queen to find the one de-scented skunk in the mass of Redwood forest.”
Seth, his axe over his shoulder as always, leans in to kiss my cheek as I pass, grinning. “I’ll help you take care of him if you want.”
“I’ll be the one to do that, Seth,” insists Vincent.
I turn and smile at Tats. “I’d like that.” He’s still quiet and broody as ever, but he still wears his hoodie every day, always washing it at night. He keeps it in good condition, and I swear he wants to preserve my handiwork.
We start back toward the cabin, Pew Pew cozy in my arms, his tiny paws kneading my chest like he’s making himself at home.
For the first time in a long time, I feel it—the tiniest, sweetest taste of freedom.
But as we head into the cabin, a deep ache settles in my chest. Because I have nearly everything ready to leave.
So, why the hell am I trying to put down roots?
Why am I clinging to this little animal like he’s a promise of something better?
I won’t be able to bring him with me if I take the horse, will I?
Not with the pace I’ll need to move. Not with the miles I’ll have to cover on foot when the roads run out.
I glance down at him, the way his pink nose twitches, as though he trusts me, like I’m safe. Maybe if I wrap him in one of those shirts I stashed in the hayloft. Tuck him into my backpack, snug and hidden.
Maybe.
The thought of leaving him behind? It feels like letting go of the only good thing I’ve touched in months. And I don’t think I can bear it.
But I can’t be getting used to this.
No matter what Raphael says—no matter how soft his voice gets, how careful he is when he brushes my hair out of my face, or the way he’s let me heal these past two weeks—it doesn’t mean I belong here.
Not after what they did. Not after what I survived.