65. Rory
Rory
QUEEN OF THE DAMNED. QUEEN OF US DAMNED FREAKS.
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Dead Butterflies”
“3rd Degree Burns”
(For Briella)
“Save Your Story”
“Stronger Than My Storm”
“Tattoos”
The monster in me is roaring.
Fuck, he is howling at the moon for her.
I’m not supposed to feel guilt.
It’s not in me—not like the others. I can feel hunger, rage, loyalty. But guilt? No. But I’m damn sure this is the closest I’ve ever come.
Because I’m the one who whispered the filth in her ear like it was sacred. I’m the one who said, “I’m going to put a baby in you.” Over and over. Like a vow. Like a prayer.
I’m a fecking jackass.
All that filthy, sweet breeder talk, because I didn’t know. I didn’t know about the wound.
Jude knew. He saw the scar that screams.
And when her voice cracks on, “They tied my tubes,” I want to set the world on fire with the heat of my rage. But I wouldn’t burn the world for my Lass.
I would keep it burning. Forever. All for her.
I’ve never felt this level of wrath. Not even when I gutted the gang who hurt Seth. Not even when I whipped the Director and carved his belly open before I set hell on fire itself.
This fury burns hotter. Purer. Like my soul’s been sharpened down to a blade just for her.
And fuck me, if there’s not a part of me—feral, male, unholy—that wants nothing more than to tear her from Raphael’s arms, lay her down, and fuck her slow, long, deep. Not to claim. Not to rut.
To unmake the pain.
To remind her of how only a Firecracker like her could take my goddamn prick and survive.
To make her forget she was ever broken.
But she belongs to our alpha right now. Every vein in my body throbs with the need to take her, but my time will come. I’ll wait. I’ll wait like a wolf in the snow, watching, panting, wanting.
For now, I just watch her.
She’s a vision, nude and untamed, hair a storm of royal silk and snarl, sweat clinging to her perfect skin. Blood trickles from her palm, down her chest, along her pretty tits. Red and holy blood. My woman is wild and full of ruin. So much pain in them, it could drown us all…or ignite us.
She’s divine. Queen of the Damned. Queen of us Damned Freaks. She wears the fire of a fallen angel rising again with the old gods on her side.
She’s still talking, still bleeding truth like it costs her everything. Every word she speaks is a strip of flesh torn from her soul.
“They said a full year was necessary.” A flat tone. Like it’s just a fact. Like she isn’t about to carve me open.
“I was very obedient,” she goes on, lost, distant. “I gave very good head.”
My blood thunders in my ears. No. One ear. And one-half ear.
“And…” her mouth twists. “He took…my ass.”
Time breaks.
The air leaves my lungs, wind knocked out of me.
I hit the floor. On all fours, I slam my hand down, hard enough to shudder the floor.
Because it was me.
Aye, it was me who first split her open there. Me who tore her. Me who made her bleed in that damn dungeon.
Twelve inches, and I wielded my prick like a fucking sword in the Initiation—like it was some holy rite.
I tried to steal her power.
I want to crawl into the dirt and die. I want to rip myself in half. I want to set the pieces on fire and give them to her like some unworthy offering.
And then, she touches me.
Raphael’s eyes narrow in a silent warning. His gaze is sharp as a blade pressed to my throat.
But he doesn’t stop me. She’s the one who reaches for me.
Her bloody fingertips glide along my cheek, into the bristle of my beard, and I swear to every unholy star in the sky, I almost cry.
Because those eyes…
They don’t judge. They don’t hate. They forgive.
For fuck’s sake!—they’re full of the purest, most goddamn sacred mercy I’ve ever seen.
And I don’t fucking deserve it.
I drop my forehead to the floor, forehead pressed to the stone like I’m praying. But I’m not. No god’d hear me now.
So I just listen.
“I was nineteen when it happened,” she continues. “One of his other wives got pregnant.”
She swallows, fingers still grazing my jaw.
“It was my friend. My…” A pause. “My lover. He took us from each other. I didn’t see her for three months, and I can’t imagine the hell she must have gone through during those days.”
My fists clench, nails biting my palms.
I still don’t move. And I can feel her stare, practically whipping the scars open on my back.
“Then she started showing. I knew it was his. I saw her walking like a ghost. She was so hollow.”
She’s somewhere else now. Not with us. She’s small, smaller than ever. One sob assures me Raphael is causing her pain again, grounding her, keeping her here—inside our chains.
“I was asked to help with the birth.”
The silence is louder than any scream.
“She delivered a stillborn,” she says. “It was a boy.”
She swallows again. “I was holding him…when her heart gave out.” She fractures. “I watched her die.”
I’m shaking. Ready to lose it. Every muscle in my body wants to do something, to undo something. I rise, the rage escaping through my clenched teeth—
And Raphael’s hand clamps around my throat.
His grip is not violent. It’s firm, final.
His brows dive lower than ever, the shadows like writhing phantoms around his damn eyes. Don’t.
I freeze.
She sees it. Sees me. And smiles. Touches me again. Fecking wrecking me.
“I knew then. I was almost twenty. The Prophet was ready to reverse my ligation. Said I’d been “cleansed” long enough.”
Cleansed. I almost vomit.
“I was perfect,” she says, sounding like a blade on bone. “Perfect for breeding.”
She inhales, building her strength. “I faked being sick. Vomited all over my bed so I wouldn’t have to go to mass.”
Smart. Brave. She’s a fucking legend.
“They sent an orderly to bring me medicine. I stabbed him in the throat and took his mask, his coat. Used the code. Got into the Prophet’s office. Stole the gold bars.”
Holy shit.
“I snuck out the delivery entrance. No cameras. Just me.” And then she looks up. “I ran like hell.”
Her hand falls from my cheek. “I never stopped running.” And then her gaze sweeps across all of us. “Not until I found you.”
Raphael releases her. Lets her go.
Jude moves to heal her.
I charge first. I’m on her in a heartbeat. I don’t think. I just move.
My arms go around her in a honeymoon hold, lifting her like something as precious as that gold, and something so beautifully damned, only she could be our Queen. Jude barks something behind me, but I tighten my grip, muscles flexing.
I turn to him, staring my brother down, the fire roaring through my veins.
“Kinship Law.”
I don’t speak. Bad blood. Purge the bad blood.
And Briella—oh, bloody Christ, she clings to me.
Her head presses to my shoulder, lips brushing the ruined edge of my ear. And I’d live in that moment if she wanted. Let her teeth take every bite of flesh she wanted.
Raphael nods to me once.
Shoving past the Doc, I carry her out. I take her down the hall and to the shower where she once poisoned me, burned me for two weeks with all that fecking oil.
After removing the compression sleeve over the scar and the tiny bits of missing flesh, I get us under the water. Cold, then hot, then just warm enough not to burn. I lower us to the floor and hold her there. Let it wash us both.
We say nothing.
Then I touch her. Running my fingers down her cheeks, her throat, her chest. Palm over her beating heart.
Ah, fuck! She touches mine, too. Might as well be claws carving me open and ripping the organ from my chest.
She breaks in my arms. Tears, shaking, the kind of sobs that shake your bones and your soul loose. She buries her face in my neck.
And I hold her through it. I hold her like she’s the only thing worth saving in this fecking ruined world.
Because she is.
She lifts her head. Purple waves cling to her face, fracturing her eyes, but those hazel orbs don’t burn or glare or punish. They paralyze me.
She touches my beard again. Her lips part. And she whispers…“Red.”
Fecking lose it.
Lifting her, I pin her against the wet wall. I plant my hand on the wall above her, trapping her with her legs around me, breasts soft and full on my chest—and every twelve inches of my masculinity throbbing against her femininity.
But…I grip my base, stare her dead in the eye, and vow, “Briella, I’d take a fucking cleaver to this before I ever use it to hurt you again.”
Briella offers me the faintest smile. A ghost of one. Like she’s reaching for something in her past.
She reaches for me instead.
Every muscle in my jaw clenches when she combs her hand through my wet hair and leans closer to kiss my ruined ear. “Rory.”
I swear her speaking my name echoes like the howl of Cú Chulainn before war—mad, holy, and too late to stop.
She kisses my ear and breathes, “Bend me like a willow and wreck me like a pagan rite.”
I unleash the beast.
One thrust of my hips, I slam into her.
The pain from her nails raking the scars on my back and her teeth sinking into my neck is the best hell I’ve ever felt.
And my Queen of the Damned clenches around me…and takes me to heaven.
“You two have fun?” Seth asks when I carry her into the main room again.
She smells amazing after the shower. Looks every bit adorable with her cheeks all flushed to match her sweet, pretty cunt. She’s dressed in her cute green Christmas leggings with the reindeer print and Vincent’s sweater, which I grabbed for her after we got out of the shower. The cap on her head.
“Seth, my cane?” she asks when I set her down, and he jumps to attention. “Could you braid my hair again?” she follows up and yawns.
“Tired, Briella Darling?” He kisses her cheek and whips her thick, wet hair into a messy but pretty French braid.
“Mmm hmm.” She yawns again, her eyelids heavy.
I’d take the credit for it. But we all know her story, opening presents, everything tonight wore her out more than big Red.
“Let me see this, Babydoll,” Jude insists, taking her palm and leaning down to kiss it. “Bleeding stopped, but let’s get a fresh bandage on this.”
Tomorrow, we’ll pick this back up. Tonight, she rests. Tomorrow, she and I will make cutout cookies for decorating. I have a whole holiday feast prepped, but she can help with the final touches. We’ll go sledding. Snowball fights. And who knows?
But as Jude wraps her hand in a gauze, a thundering boom cracks the air.
The ground shudders.
Raphael charges to his feet. He pushes the stone above the fireplace.
Shit. Fuck. Bloody Christ. Never thought this day would come.
Protocol X.
Briella shudders in Jude’s arms.
The stakes are higher. And we have more to lose than ever.