53. Briella #2
“What in all fucking fuck?” Vincent asks as we start to pass.
Rory pauses to size them all up, his chest puffed out in justified pride.
Raphael stands outside, with that subtle tugging of the corner of his mouth. Approval. Because he knows what happened. The others don’t.
“Briella Darling, are you okay?” Seth reaches out for me, but I flinch, gripping Rory tighter. My Red bares his teeth in a masculine snarl at Seth.
Yeah. Rory gets that tonight. For the rest of the night, he owns me. Like he’s won me as his prize, his possession. Cause he fucking earned it. And they didn’t.
Jude gapes at me, his brows creased in concern. “Babydoll?”
I read all their confused expressions and huff, “Morons.”
Sizing up Rory, Vincent steps forward, muscles bulging, fist on the verge of rising. “What the hell did you do to her?”
“He said, I love you,” I tell them.
Seth’s jaw drops. Vincent and Jude turn to each other, flabbergasted.
“Yeah. He said it.” I stab out my chin, giving them my best dirty, filthy fucking glare of contention. Rory throbs inside me. “And none of you jackasses did.”
“Come on, Briella.” He steps toward the door, holding me strong with one arm and giving the others a mock salute with his other hand. “I’m taking ye to the woods to learn just how much ye love my cock.”
He pauses only for me to meet Raphael’s gaze.
I don’t glare or sneer at him. Because I know he’s the only one who will never speak the words.
The only one who never needs to. He’s a hunter, a killer, a psychopath.
His signature is inscribed inside the scar on my limping leg.
We will never exist in any sphere, any definition of the word “love”.
Regardless, I’m his slave, his Queen, their Queen. And I’ve accepted that, surrendered to it.
But tonight, I’m surrendering to everything else with Rory.
So, I swipe the cap right off Raphael’s head, secure it on mine, and tell Rory he better make good on that “bow-legged” vow.
A FEW DAYS LATER
Rory won’t shut up.
Ever since he blurted out I love you like a lovesick himbo, he’s been insufferable. Strutting around the Christmas nursery like he owns me. Smirking. Winking. Smacking my ass every chance he gets. I’d hit him if I didn’t secretly like the attention.
When he grabs a big handful, I swing around this time, hand primed to strike. He catches my wrist, kisses my palm like he’s charming. “There’s my Firecracker. Maybe we can make our own fire between the trees over there.”
I giggle. I always end up giggling. I gave him an inch. He’s more than a ruler. He’s a fucking Scottish king lounging on a throne.
Ugh. I’m a menace to myself.
But today? I feel good. Stronger than I’ve felt in weeks. The cold air fills my lungs, and the scent of pine and cinnamon makes my chest ache with a stupid kind of happiness. I’m walking mostly on my own. The limp’s still there, but I’m not letting it stop me. Not today.
Jude and Seth brought me here, into the city, a couple days ago…
for the first test of more walking without my splint.
Seth loaded up on winter necessities: a new gas-powered generator, medical supplies, portable heaters, and heavier clothes for me.
Even a big vacuum sealer for Rory, so he can stockpile everything from the greenhouse as I keep bringing it to life.
I know I should take it easy. Everyone keeps telling me go slow, don’t push, watch your leg, especially Jude, but I’ve been cooped up too long. I need this. Need the lights. The music. The decorations.
The Christmas spirit makes me feel lighter, like I could sprout fairy wings.
Vincent watches from the edges. He’s loaded up the cart with whatever I want. He never talks much, but I always feel him. Quiet strength. Like he’s guarding me, even from the shadows.
Every time I glance his way, he’s already looking. Hoodie half-zipped under a worn jacket, eyes dark, mouth unreadable. Always unreadable. But there’s heat behind that stillness. Always is. Like he’s holding something back just for me.
I’ve had my time with Rory, purging the bad blood until nothing was left but burning blood.
Jude and I had our moments in the shower that first day.
Seth and I? The time when he tied me to the woodpile and introduced me to his tools.
Raphael and I have moments every damn day. He’s demanding. All it takes is a crook of his finger to summon me. Sometimes, I think he does it just to watch me limp toward him, taking pride in how he’s scarred me forever.
And still…I obey him every time.
I’ve bonded with all of them in different ways.
All except Vincent.
I run my fingers over a fir sapling’s soft needles and can’t stop the smile that curls up my face.
The tag reads Fraser Fir, but I name it Needle McSproutface, imagining it with a tiny red bow.
My scarf swings behind me as I spin to grab a lantern, but I stumble just slightly, my balance giving for a split second.
When I glance to the side, Vincent is already halfway to me. His whole body tensed, jaw clenched, tracking every shift in my weight. He saw it.
The sharp little pang that just knifed through my calf reminds me that I’m not invincible, no matter how high I’m riding today.
I can’t fake it. I can’t hide the pain. The second jolt comes harder, a brutal twist of an ache down the side of my leg, and I gasp. My knee starts to buckle.
Vincent’s there.
His arm wraps around my waist like iron, catching me just before I fall. His hand splays wide across my hip, pulling me flush to his chest, his body firm and steady. Like he’s been waiting all day for this. For me.
“Easy, Girly,” he murmurs. His voice is low. Rough. So close, it skates across my neck. “We’ve got time.”
A flush spreads across my skin that has nothing to do with the cold. He’s body-conscious like Jude. But in this rougher, seasoned warrior way, because he’s seen all manner of injuries.
I look up at him, heart pounding. His eyes search mine—unreadable—and I can’t help the breath lodging in my throat. My fingers grip the fabric of his jacket, clinging like I’ve just been rescued from something worse than pain.
“Thanks, Vinny,” I whisper.
His name tastes like honey and heat on my tongue. His grip tightens just a little, as if he feels it too. The weight of the moment.
God, I want him to kiss me.
But instead, he eases me upright, holding me a second longer than necessary. I wish he wouldn’t let go.
“I’m okay,” I lie, smiling up at him as I straighten.
I’m not. Not fully. My leg is throbbing, and I’m starting to sweat from the effort, but none of it matters when Vincent looks at me like that.
Like an ancient guardian sworn to servitude to a goddess.
Other than Jude, he’s the most protective.
But Jude is protective in a different way.
It’s etched in his healing bones. And his resolute nobility.
Vincent’s protectiveness radiates from his chest, hardens his muscles, and shows up whenever he tracks my movements. I could swear his tattoos themselves are watching me. But he’s also clocking everything around me. The fighter ready for a fight at any second.
He doesn’t speak again, but when I point to a rustic wooden reindeer, he picks it up without hesitation and adds it to the cart, no questions asked.
Whatever I ask for, he gets it. Not just because Raphael said to. Vincent wants me to want things. Like he wants to give them to me.
My chest flutters at the two flatbed carts loaded up with everything I could possibly need to decorate the cabins.
“Think Seth could carve me a goat instead?” I tease, poking Vincent’s arm.
The corner of his mouth lifts in the smallest smirk, and it feels like winning a prize.
“Can you get me more birch?” I ask, my hand resting on his sleeve for a second too long, gesturing to the bundles at the end of the row.
“How many?”
“Five, please. And a couple more lanterns.”
I twirl before I think. Stupid. Too fast. The jolt of pain steals my breath, and I tip, but this time, Rory catches me.
“Ye’re gonna kill me, woman,” he huffs, hands wandering to my ass again.
I cling to him just long enough to get upright again, but when I look over Rory’s shoulder, Vincent’s jaw is locked tight. His eyes narrow slightly. He’s frustrated.
Not at me, though. For me.
And at Rory for getting to touch me again.
Rory wiggles his brows like he’s fully aware, and I snort. “You gonna help or just stare at my ass all day?”
“Supervising,” he says. “It’s a mighty fine ass.”
Vincent grunts and grabs another lantern. “Good thing we need you for dinner. Otherwise, I’d leave you in the mulch.”
“Go suck a goat,” Rory fires back.
I lift both hands, wobbling just a little on my feet. “Boys, please. You’re both pretty. And if I have to referee again, I’m charging a fee.”
They both grumble, but Vincent glances at me with something softer now. Like he’s letting me set the pace again. Like he’s waiting for me.
“There’s just one thing left.” I point to the rows and rows of trees. “The best for last.” Our Christmas tree for the main cabin.
Vincent nods once, and we walk. Slowly now, with him supporting me.
After he helps me with the tree, and we round the corner of the row, all the blood drains from my face. I grip Vincent’s jacket for dear life, trying to melt into him, desperate to hide. I pull the cap on tighter, trying to hide the rest of my hair under my scarf and coat.
Then, a familiar man standing off to the side slowly turns in our direction. All I want to do is run far away.
“Bri?” He stares. “Gabriella Weston?”
Split-second trauma.
My heart screams.