50. Briella #2
Something gray catches my eye, peeking out from under the other pillow.
Knitting my brows, I reach under the pillow, and I can’t help the amusement rippling through me.
Because it’s Rafael’s cap. It’s been waiting for me this whole time.
Picking it up, I find a note tucked under it.
It’s from Raphael. Not surprised that it’s only two words. Gone hunting.
Three days so far. I scan the room. “There are cameras around, aren’t there?”
Seth returns with a pretty blue flare dress and some underwear.
“Sure, but you never know with Raphael if he is watching. He goes all radio silent when he’s hunting.
” He arrives at my side and gently lays the dress at the foot of the bed since I need a bath first. “His wilderness treks, I guess it’s what he needs to stay… him.”
A sudden, sharp stabbing pain bolts through my calf, and I cry out. Jude takes off the sheet to examine my bandage. I wince and moan as he touches the area with tender fingers.
“You’ll need another round of numbing medication. My medical bag is right here.”
As Jude tends to my leg, Seth busies himself with tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. Wait, is my hair braided? I touch the braid, turning to him. “Did you do this?”
Smiling with a shrug, he admits, “That’s all I could do. How did you know it was me?”
“Because you’re sweet and good with ropes, of course. Doesn’t take rocket science.” I lean in and kiss his cheek.
“But not too sweet, right?” He winks. And I nod. Never underestimating him since the woodpile.
He touches his lips to the side of my neck, spreading tingles everywhere. It helps distract me from Jude plunging a needle into me. I grip Seth’s hand hard, and I don’t know what compels me, but I lower my head and kiss him.
He seizes the moment as usual, takes my face in his hands, and opens my mouth.
He smells like sawdust, but he tastes like hearty meat.
It makes my mouth water. But I know I won’t be able to eat meat for a few days.
At least not that kind of meat. Oh, fuck me, why am I thinking about the other meat?
I swear I have turned into a horny, crazy mess.
But it’s okay. Because I own it. And because I am as crazy as they are.
“I’m gonna marry you someday. You know that, Briella Darling?”
“Oh, Seth.” I tap his cheek. “We might be crazy. But let’s not go for delusional, okay?”
What we have, what all of us have, doesn’t need labels. It’s a wild, dark energy that transcends the laws of the Earth. There is only one law here, one rule. Raphael’s law.
But for once, I can meet a man, a king, a god as his equal and challenge him whenever I want.
Sometimes, he’ll punish me for it, but that’s fine.
Because I have a voice. Because I am wanted.
I’m needed. And I belong. And what is the craziest, most unhinged, deranged, and fucked up to biblical proportions thing?
I know beyond any doubt…he would kill me if I tried to run again.
But I know this much: if anyone ever dared to take me from them, my boys wouldn’t just come for me. They’d burn cities, drown whole countries in blood, and build a throne from the bones. They’d make the earth itself remember the price of touching what’s theirs.
I shiver at the delicious thoughts and curse myself for my demented imagination.
SEVEN DAYS LATER
It’s been seven days, seven days since I woke up, and Raphael still hasn’t returned. Ten days total.
But every day, I carry this knot in my gut like a body bag full of fear.
My mind won’t shut up. Images of wolves tearing him apart, or a bear cracking his ribs open and mauling his intestines.
Maybe lightning fried him into jerky. Maybe he tripped and fell off a goddamn cliff.
Maybe another backwoods serial killer strung him up for fun. No, not that. Not in a million years.
The nightmares haven’t stopped. Honestly, my imagination and I need to have a long, cleansing exorcism.
Stupid, stupid, stupid hormones.
Stupid, stupid, stupid heart.
I shouldn’t care. He shot me with a goddamn arrow, like I was the prey he claimed. Fucked me against a tree until I forgot my own name and my soul came undone. He did it back in the mine, like I was the last breath of air in a burning world—like breaking me was the only thing keeping him alive.
Maybe it’s the closest thing he can feel.
I didn’t want it then. I hated it. Sometimes, I think I survived the Initiation just because I deserve to be miserable. No, not deserve. For fucks’ sake, I have more self-esteem than that.
Fate or some other force keeps sending me back to the fucked-up, damned monsters of this world. But they’re different monsters.
I’m his. I’m theirs.
And for once in my miserable life—and his—I think he’s mine.
And he hates that. He hates it so much, he’ll hurt me for my audacity to claim him, for making him feel anything.
Well, tough fucking luck. Because if he dies, I won’t just be heartbroken.
I’ll be unmade.
Godfuckingfuck! I rake my nails against my scalp, then pound my hands against my head, wishing I could knock the racing thoughts out of my stupid head.
It’s all the inactivity. Cabin fever. Literally.
I know I shouldn’t complain, but I have been stuck in this damn bed for a whole week. I don’t know how much more I can take!
Jude gave me a splint for my leg, but it feels more like a shitty ankle monitor. Calf monitor.
The worst part? They’ve all been on their best behavior. They bring me food. Carry me to the bathroom. Jude runs a bubble bath for me every day and washes my back before using that tongue of wicked fire on me.
That’s part of the problem. Stupid Kinship Law. Raphael’s law. He gets me first. And then, he lets them off their chicken-shit leashes.
For fuck’s sake, it’s worship at least eight times a day since they all try to outdo one another. Pretty sure it’s a game to see who can make me come the fastest.
And to keep me exhausted, resting, and healing. In this bed. No, it’s more of a royal sex prison with a rotation of horny, virile captors. Except no sex, of course.
By breakfast, I have had it!
I need downstairs. Or I need dick. I’ll take either.
Thankfully, Pew Pew is in the laundry area, litter training with Vincent. Not here to witness my bad mood. He said the little guy is doing well.
Rory sweeps into the room, carrying a tray with one of those silver domed things that cover the food.
I don’t remember the name. I huff, arms crossed.
Insufferable. “Kiss the Cook” is written on the apron.
And all he wears beneath is his fucking kilt.
Suspenders over his bare muscles, the red curls covering his upper chest. Other than him, only Vincent and Raphael have chest hair.
I’m convinced Jude and Seth wax or shave.
“Your breakfast, mi’Lass.” He makes a patronizing show.
I like him better when he’s spitting sociopathic fire at me. I go over options in my brain. Snarky reference to his ear? Threats of more pranks? Refusing to eat? Letting him fuck my ass?—Okay, I will never do that one—but something to get me out of this damn bed.
As soon as he removes the bubble thing, the smell of bacon, scrambled eggs, pancakes, and a honeyed biscuit drifts through my nose. A glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. My mouth waters.
I don’t eat yet. I just sit here. Arms crossed. A big fat frown on my face.
Rory lowers his brows, smile slipping, big stupid muscles bulging. “The fuck is wrong?”
I stick my nose up in the air. “The food isn’t wrong. The bed is. Take me downstairs to the table.”
He glances at the door, his gaze hesitant before turning back to me. “Jude said you’re supposed to stay in bed. If you prefer it t’be shaking under you, that can be arranged.” His lips twist to one side.
“For fuck’s sake, Red! Please, I need some air!” I make my best puppy dog pouty face, softening my features and lips. If that doesn’t work, then it’s back to the goddess wrath complex. “I just wanna go downstairs. The front porch max, I promise. You can hold me the whole time.”
I need to feel the wind on my face, smell the Redwood and crisp pines. Winter is coming, and we’ll have to hibernate soon.
He taps his chin with that infuriating glint in his eye. “Poor Lass. Your leg may be splinted. But does someone need big Red to spread those pretty thighs and eat her arse?”
I groan and tip my head back. “NO! The one time, the ONE time I want you to break the rules, you bloody Scottish pussy!”
He growls in his throat. “What did you say?”
Without thinking, I grab the syrup-coated pancake and chuck it at him.
It bounces off his chest, dripping syrup onto his skin.
He clenches his hands into fists, a muscle bouncing in his jaw, his eye twitching.
But I don’t let him get a beat in before throwing the biscuit at him. I grin, mad and wild.
“Forget ass-eating. Ye need an ass-beating, Firecracker.” He steps toward the bed, and I leer, scooting the tray onto the bedside table. For the first time in a week, my blood is heating up. I want a fight. And he’s the best one to target.
He crouches over the bed, fists balled, just a thread from me. “Ye be a good girl, and I won’t bend ye over this bed and feed that smart mouth something else piping hot.”
“Wrong mouth, Rory.” I stick out my tongue and notice his kilt, where he’s tenting the fabric. Dropping the bed sheet, I lower the straps of my silk slip, squeezing my shoulders, teasing with my cleavage.
He bares his teeth. “Ye know Kinship Law.”
Oooh, I get a good one. Snapping my attention back to his, I stab my chin forward, my lips touching his beard. “You overgrown leprechaun in a lady skirt!”
The second he growls louder and grips my throat, I reach off to the side and revel while splashing the orange juice right in his face. He breaks his hold, and I roll over with the awkward splint while he swipes at me, snarling.