78. Raphael
Raphael
WHEN IT COMES TO HEALING…I’M USELESS.
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“First Blood”
“Weight of the World”
Briella isn’t breathing.
Her chest—normally so soft and warm when I press my mouth to it—is still. Too still. Her lips are pale, kissed with that wrong shade of blue I’ve only ever seen on corpses.
I’ve made corpses before.
I’ve watched men’s souls leave their bodies and blood pool beneath their twitching flesh. I’ve watched women die with whispers on their lips and fear still frozen across their faces.
Most of the time, it’s a necessity. The addiction. The treatment. But I’ve taken pleasure in it—at times.
But this? It’s not pleasure or power.
This is terror.
And it’s stronger than anything I’ve ever known.
“Get the AED—now!” Jude cuts through the room, sharp as a blade. His knees hit the floor beside her, hands already moving to check her pulse, to tilt her head back. His fingers brush over the softness of her throat. “Nothing,” he mutters.
My stomach drops into a cold pit. My soul is a grave. My fingers twitch at my sides like they want to act, to fix, to do something—but I don’t know how. I’ve never known how.
When it comes to pain, I’m an artist. When it comes to healing…I’m useless.
Vincent is somewhere behind me, roaring. I hear the sound of fists slamming into flesh—wet and dull and horrifying. Alden’s snarling, or maybe crying, or maybe choking on his own blood. The sound barely penetrates the fog in my head.
I don’t care. As long as he still lives for Briella to kill.
All I care about is the girl lying on the floor with no heartbeat, no light in her eyes.
Briella. Mine. The ultimate direction of my damned moral compass.
Jude knows exactly what to do. Of course he does. He grabs his medical bag, digs for the AED.
He doesn’t flinch. His hands are already moving—interlocked, pressing down on her chest. One, two, three…
He counts. Measured. Controlled. His hands are steadier than ever. This isn’t the first time I’ve watched him work over her body like it’s something sacred.
During the Initiation—when we pushed her past every threshold, when we ripped her open in every way imaginable—Jude got her through it. And tended to her afterward. Jude checked her for tears and internal damage and painstakingly changed her bandages every damn day.
Jude sat up with her, whispering into her ear when she whimpered in her sleep.
After the arrow—when I fucked her and exacted retribution through her flesh—it was Jude who kept her alive through the blood loss. He was the one who stitched her. Stabilized her. Cursed me to hell while wrapping her in warmth I cannot provide.
And after I forced myself into her mouth, merciless and greedy, not stopping until she passed out with me still down her throat—limp, unconscious, fucking fragile—it was Jude who knelt beside her and coaxed her back into the world of the living.
I see it now for what it is: I keep breaking her.
He keeps bringing her back.
The AED chirps to life. Jude slaps the first electrode pad over her right collarbone, the second on her ribs. The machine begins to analyze, mechanical, calm, and cruel.
Analyzing rhythm. Do not touch the patient.
Jude pulls back just enough, hands hovering. Sweat drips from his brow. I can see the sheen of panic beneath the practiced movements. He’s scared. Not for himself—never for himself.
Shock advised.
“Clear!” Jude shouts, though no one’s touching her but him.
The machine jolts her.
Her body jumps, limbs stiff and jerking before slamming back to the floor with a brutal thud.
But nothing happens. No cry. No flicker of those lashes I’ve watched flutter when she sleeps.
Jude doesn’t wait. He’s already back on her chest, counting again. “One, two, three, come on—four, five, six—don’t do this to me, Babydo—seven, eight…”
His voice cracks.
And I—I just kneel there. Watching. Helpless. Haunted.
Because this is the first time I’ve really seen it. What he does. What he’s done, over and over again, while I let my obsessions run rampant, and my hunger devour her.
Without Jude…there wouldn’t be a Briella left to save.
Another cycle. Two rescue breaths. His mouth over hers, delicate and exact. I want to rip out my own teeth as I watch. Want to bleed for how little I deserve to even be in this room with her. With them.
I can’t feel it. But I know it. Every bone in my body, every cell in my blood knows it.
The AED sounds again. Analyzing rhythm. Do not touch the patient.
Jude pulls back, chest heaving.
Shock advised. The jolt is worse this time. Her back arches, her lashes flutter—and fall still.
But then—
A sound. A broken, gasping, wretched inhale. And then another. She coughs. Then more.
She’s moving.
My very soul quakes. A boulder weighs down on my chest.
Jude gently turns her on her side, clearing her airway, wiping her mouth with his sleeve. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, Babydoll.”
Her eyes blink open. Barely. But they open. She lives. Because of him.
I almost killed him for failing her.
Now I could fall on my knees and thank him. But I still can’t give up my power. Not to him. Not to Vincent, the oldest. The only one…
Her. Briella. She is the only one. Because she’s already taken the gravity of my power. She holds my soul inside her. If she is my extension, then I am hers. Tangled. Chained. No end and no beginning. Forever.
She trembles in his arms with desperate gasps. She clings to him like he’s her only tether to earth.
He removes his jacket, wrapping it around her naked upper half. Rocking her, soothing her, Jude glances up at me then. Not a word. Just his eyes. Not cold—not smug. Just…tired. Raw. He knows what I’m thinking. He always does.
And this time, I don’t look away. I nod. The only apology I know how to give. And one more thing.
“Not sevenfold, Jude.” I lock onto his gaze. “Your debt is canceled.”
He says nothing, just holds her closer. Tighter. Like she might disappear again.
And I finally understand. I never healed her. I broke her soul, resurrected it, and enslaved her.
Jude…sets her free.
Briella jumps at the sound of the stun gun behind us.
I turn to see Alden on the floor, his bruised and bloodied body flopping like a fish out of water. Because Rory has shoved the electric rod right up the bastard’s ass.