61. Jude
Jude
“WAIT. I UM-I HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU, TOO.”
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“It Doesn’t Get Better” - Citizen Soldier
Those glittery hazel eyes turn to me, hopeful, swooning as usual.
I’ve memorized her body gestures. And I love how I’m the only one who truly makes Briella swoon. She looks adorable in Vincent’s sweater and Rory’s collar. I’m eager to see her dressed in nothing but that collar, but the Scottish bastard will get that honor first.
His gift to her. Her gift to him.
I wave my hand, summoning her. Seth’s face lights up when she takes the cane and tries it out. The wood is strong. It will hold up well. It takes a few practice tries, but she gets the hang of it. As her doctor, I approve of the cane and its prevention of further injury.
“Hey, Jude.” Briella leans on the cane and smiles at me. A soft, slow-blooming smile—the kind that’s warm, trusting, and teasing, with that dreamy, head tilt. Like I’m her favorite drug, and she’s already floating.
“And I have indeed let you under my skin.”
Love that little giggle, knowing I played along with her Beatles joke.
Touching one finger to her chin, I urge her closer, tipping her face up ever so little. I may be sitting, but I’m still a head taller than her, than everyone in this room.
“I may have one practical gift for my Babydoll. And one intimate and intriguing gift.”
“Ack, come on, Doc,” groans Rory, tipping his head back against the sofa. “It’s a present, not fucking poetry.”
“Which would you like first?” I ask.
“Practical, pretty please.”
“On my lap.”
I touch her hips as she turns, and I help lower her onto my lap, her back to my chest. Then, I reach for the present I cunningly hid beneath the chair.
“It’s so pretty,” she marvels at the box alone. Blue with little snowflakes and a silver bow. “So perfect on the outside, I almost don’t want to ruin it.” When I kiss the side of her head, she turns back to me and adds, “Almost.”
Leaning back against me, she opens the small box, surprise flashing as her fingers brush the soft, black fabric inside. A custom-made compression sleeve—one I designed, sleek, breathable, subtly embroidered with silver thread in a pattern that mirrors the chains of our brand.
“For your leg.” I ease it out and roll the fabric between my fingers. “It’ll help with circulation. Support the scar tissue. Ease the limp over time.”
She nods, brushing her hair off her shoulder as I guide her leg into place. I smooth the sleeve up her legging-clad calf, my hands slow and sure. It fits like it was made for her—because it was.
“You’re not broken, Babydoll,” I whisper near her ear. “Just healing—with a little help.”
After tracing her fingers across the sleeve, she throws her arms around my neck, hugs me, then touches the stubble on my jaw before touching the side of my face. “Thanks, Cheekbones.”
I kiss her. She melts. Surrenders so beautifully every time. I taste the remnants of the Christmas punch she had earlier. She smells like Christmas. Wild oranges, clove, frankincense, cinnamon, and pine needles. Dragging the flat of my tongue along hers, I savor her moan, how she leans closer.
When her fingers stray to the buttons on my shirt, I chuff a laugh and free her of the kiss, tapping her nose. “Slow down, Babydoll. You have another gift to open.”
I hand her the next box. Much smaller than the last. Green this time with a gold bow. All she needs to do is remove the lid.
Inside is a small vial on a chain. Her lips turn up as I dangle it before her. “It has our blood. A drop of blood from each of us.”
“Yeah, I still got the finger prick to prove it,” Seth grumbles from behind, but Briella focuses on me.
“And my blood?” she wonders.
I nod. “I took your blood a couple of times during your healing process. We are all here.” I fasten the chain around her throat, clasping it.
She touches the vial and lays her head on my chest. Heat fills my chest and travels lower. She’s listening to my heartbeat. I let her curl up in my lap, lingering here while I softly rub circles along the compression sleeve.
“I have a gift for you, Briella.”
All of us snap our heads up, gazes primed on Raphael, who rises from his leather chair, setting aside his punch.
Our jaws nearly hit the floor because Raphael never gives gifts.
Never. Not in our entire history, and he has made it clear he wants none.
The veins in his forearms throb, bare from the rolled-up sleeves.
Briella lifts her head, scanning our responses before she turns to our alpha. When he crooks a finger, she uncurls herself from my lap, leans on the cane, and slowly limps toward him. I get up quickly, along with the others, because we are all interested.
Once she arrives before him, an inch from his chest, Raphael retrieves something from his vest pocket.
He holds it in his palm, letting Briella take it in.
Her breath thins. Tears roll down her cheeks.
And then…she traces the delicate hairpin of pure gold with five linked chains… and the metallic arrowhead at its end.
“Is it…?” she trails off, but she doesn’t even need Raphael’s nod to confirm.
At first, he takes the hairpin and trains the arrow point along her pulse. A subtle warning of how easily he would end her life. She’s allowed to rattle our chains. Never escape them.
“I took the thing that almost broke you,” he tucks the hairpin into the thick braid curls at the nape of her neck, concealing the pin from view, “and now, it will hold you together.”
Eyes flashing with primal obsession, he touches her braid, fingers wandering along the length. “You ran from me, and I marked you, my Queen. Now you wear it. Not simply because I command it…but because it honors what you survived. And it will remind you of who kept you alive and real.”
Damn.
A gift as intense as Raphael himself. It couldn’t be more perfect.
Briella parts her lips. He glares as if daring her to challenge him or make some snarky remark. But she doesn’t.
“Thank you.”
So quiet, barely above a murmur. If we weren’t this close to them, we never would have heard it.
When he claims her jaw in a bruising grip, Briella jerks her chin away but touches his chest. “Wait. I um-I have something for you, too.”
The second she tries to step away, Raphael seizes her wrist, wrenching her back. “No gifts,” he says sternly, brows screwed low.
She heaves a sigh, rises on her good leg in a tiptoe, and stares him down with the feminine spirit she always has with him. “It’s small. And would it help if I said it’s for both of us?”
When he leans closer, and she doesn’t blink, he slowly releases her wrist. She releases a relieved sigh before turning to Seth. “Hey, Timber, under the couch at the end, left-hand side. Could you—”
Seth’s already on his way like a good golden retriever. The tension thickens in the room. But the intrigue overshadows it as Seth hands her the small brown paper package. Crude. Odd-shaped.
“If you want, I can open it for you,” she offers Raphael.
He nods, and Briella tears open the paper, revealing…
Fuck.
They are the best goddamn match made in hell, the kind not transcribed in the stars but in a supernova dying to form a black hole.
She lifts the newsboy cap, turning it over. This one is black, but subtle purple stitching confirms she knit her mark into it…tiny flowers circling the cap. Like a crown.
“The other was getting really worn, especially after how much I was wearing it.”
When Raphael doesn’t move a muscle, apart from the one ticking in his jaw, her cheeks pale with fear. “I thought you might—I thought it might be—you don’t have to—I can’t return it, but I—”
Without another word, he takes the cap from her fingers, securing it on her head before lifting her into his arms. I smirk as my psycho partner, her perfect match, yanks her leggings down to her thighs, shoves her up against the bricks of the fireplace, and brings her down on his cock, spearing her.
We all grow hard and hungry, watching as he warns her not to drop her crown and fucks the hell out of his Queen. Our Queen.