Chapter Four
Rafe
Mama Rue touches my elbow as Mercy works on Briar’s hair, and the gesture is so light I almost miss it. “Come outside with me,” she says. A summons from someone who listens to the mountain better than anyone alive.
I follow her out onto the porch. The air hits cold and sharp, cutting through the heat that clung to me inside. Mama Rue stands at the railing, hands folded, eyes fixed on the tree line like she’s reading a scripture written in branches.
“She can’t speak,” she begins quietly, “because someone punished her for trying.”
My jaw tightens. “I figured as much.”
It lands low in my gut, sharp enough to make my hands want to crush a certain man’s windpipe.
“That’s not all.” She turns to me, and the weight in her gaze lands heavy on my chest. “Her throat didn’t go silent by choice. It was forced quiet. Repeated. Hard. Violent.”
While my brain screams obscenities, the world narrows to her words, each one sinking deeper than the last.
“We don’t need to name the acts,” Mama Rue continues. “We only need to understand the harm. Her voice wasn’t stolen—it was damaged. And that damage kept happening, so it couldn’t heal on its own. I see the signs.”
My stomach drops. A hot, sick anger rises in my throat, thick enough to choke on. I grip the railing so hard the wood groans under my fingers.
“She’s just a slip of a woman,” I whisper. “A starving, hunted girl.”
“And yet she survived.” Mama Rue places a hand over mine, the warmth of her touch grounding me. “Her silence isn’t madness. It’s training. A shield. A wound that hasn’t had space to heal.”
I can’t hold the image of Briar curled in that corner and the reality of what caused it in the same breath.
I want to put my fist through the nearest tree.
I don’t. I stand there and take it instead.
Then I want the man who did this kneeling in front of me so I can end the threat cleanly, swiftly, without a shred of mercy.
Mama Rue continues on. “When she reaches for you, when she comes close, when she obeys—none of that is choice. Not yet. It’s fear.”
I swallow hard. “I know.”
“Good,” she says. “Because the temptation to read her actions as wanting you will come. And you must not answer that temptation until she knows the difference between want and survival.”
The Code echoes in my bones: No taking from fear. No touch without choosing.
Mama Rue’s voice softens. “You’re lonely, Rafe. The mountain knows it. But don’t confuse closeness with consent. And don’t take her trembling for invitation. This situation is different than the ones that have come before it.”
I look down at my hands, stained with dirt and the faint smear of blood where she bit me. “I would never touch her for my sake.”
“I know that.” She pauses. “But you will want her. And wanting isn’t wrong. Acting on a wound is.”
I exhale shakily. The breeze stings my eyes. I rub a hand over my face, trying to release some of the heaviness choking my chest.
“She deserves gentleness,” I say quietly. “Real gentleness. Not the kind she thinks she owes.”
“She deserves choice,” Mama Rue corrects softly. “And you are the kind of man who can give it to her. In the end, let her choose you. Then she’ll feel safe enough to stay.”
My throat aches, but I nod through it.
When I finally step inside, the sight waiting for me knocks the breath from my lungs.
Briar, hair half-braided, face washed, wounds salved, skin clean and glowing by firelight, looks nothing like the terrified creature I carried in.
She looks like someone returning to herself.
And the pressure in my chest sharpens into something I know I’ll spend the rest of my life protecting. She shouldn’t hit me this way—but she does.
Briar sits near the hearth, wrapped in one of Mercy’s soft shirts, legs tucked under her, clean for the first time in God knows how long. Her hair hangs in a loose braid, the rest falling in dark silk. She’s still thin, still trembling, still wary—but the wild, desperate edge has eased.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes catch the firelight and hold it. My body registers it before my mind does. I lock it down just as fast as I feel a shift inside me.
“You did good, Briar,” Mercy whispers, brushing one last strand into place.
She doesn’t react, not directly. But her breath slows the smallest amount. Not trust. But less terror.
Mama Rue pats Mercy’s shoulder and leaves us space. Mercy follows, keeping her steps quiet the way a woman who’s lived through terror knows how to do. The front door closes softly. I lock it behind them.
It’s just Briar and me.
I move slowly, lowering myself to sit a few feet away, not blocking her path to the door. I place the bowl of warm broth between us. She watches the steam rise, eyes narrowing in suspicion the way a wounded animal tests a scent.
“It’s for you,” I say gently. “Just food. Nothing else.”
She hesitates, then creeps forward on her knees. Her fingers shake as she picks up the bowl. The first sip dribbles down her chin. She wipes it quickly, as though expecting punishment.
No one punishes her here.
I let her eat without hovering. Each sip seems harder than the last—not because the broth is difficult, but because her body doesn’t know how to accept comfort. She keeps glancing at me, waiting to see how men are supposed to react when a girl takes up space or makes noise.
When the bowl is empty, I take the scrap of paper from earlier and place it on the floor between us, along with a freshly sharpened pencil.
“If you want,” I say. “Only if you want.”
Her hands tremble as she reaches for it. The pencil rolls. She curses soft and low—no words, just a broken vibration—and frustration flashes across her face.
Her grip tightens too much, and the tip snaps. She gasps, eyes shining with panic. She presses her palms to her thighs like she’s bracing for the hit she believes must come.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Hey. It’s alright.”
I move closer, slow enough she can stop me at any point. She doesn’t. Her breath stutters, but she stays still as I reach out and lay my hand over hers.
Her skin is cold, and her fingers twitch under my palm.
“That’s it,” I croon. “Just settle. You don’t have to get it perfect.”
I guide her hand gently, helping her form the strokes. She watches our joined hands with an expression I can’t name—fear, wonder, disbelief all tangled together.
She tries again alone. The lines are shaky with uneven letters. But she finishes the word.
S A F E
It nearly breaks me in half.
Briar lets out a soft sound—half sob, half exhale—and presses her forehead to the paper. Her shoulders shake, but for once, the tremble is less terror and more release.
I touch her back lightly. “You are.”
And for the first time, she doesn’t flinch from the truth.
I set her pallet by the fire—soft furs, clean blankets, space for her to curl in without feeling trapped. She watches me the whole time, eyes darting between my hands and the bed.
“It’s yours,” I say quietly. “Sleep where you’re comfortable.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
I back away, giving her distance, and climb into my own bed. The fire crackles. The wind howls against the cabin walls. Her breath trembles across the room in uneven waves.
Minutes pass.
A soft rustle breaks the quiet. I open my eyes.
Briar crawls across the floor on hands and knees, shadows moving with her. She pauses at the edge of the bed, chest heaving, waiting for permission she thinks she needs. The trembling in her limbs isn’t fear of me—it’s fear of choosing wrong.
“Come up if you want to. I won’t touch you.”
She climbs in fast, as though hesitating would bring consequences.
She curls against my side, tucking herself under my arm like she’s done it a thousand times.
My whole body goes still, every instinct awake and held in check.
Her little pants hit my ribs in hot bursts.
Her fingers clutch the fabric of my shirt, then release, clutch again.
I keep still, giving her only warmth.
She finally falls asleep that way—shaking until the shaking finally stops. The weight of her head on my shoulder feels good. Too good.
I don’t realize I drift off too until something warm and wet pulls me awake.
My breath punches out of me. Not from pleasure or shock, but from grief so sharp it buckles me.
Briar is between my legs, under the covers, her mouth wrapped around me in small, rhythmic movements—soft, cautious, automatic. Her hands tremble on my thighs. She isn’t seeking pleasure. She isn’t choosing intimacy.
She’s soothing herself with the only tool she was ever given to survive.
My heart breaks so hard I feel it crack. And beneath it, another hit—hard, unwanted—and I shove it down.
“Briar,” I whisper, voice raw. “No.”
She freezes mid-movement, and her whole body goes rigid. I reach down fast, not to restrain her—only to stop what she believes is required. I gather her into my arms and pull her upright, away from my body, cradling her trembling form to my chest.
She fights in tiny jerks, panicked breaths hitting my collarbone. Flinching and bracing, she waits for the blow that never comes. Waits for the punishment. For the pain she thinks she earned.
“No,” I say again, firmer now, but still soft. “Sweet girl… no. You don’t owe me anything for your safety. Not from fear. Not from this. That is a basic human right. That is the code we live by.”
She shakes her head wildly, hands climbing up my torso in frantic apology. A broken sound claws out of her throat, small and scared.
I cup her face between my hands, thumb brushing the tears she doesn’t know she’s crying. “Look at me.”
She won’t, so I lower my voice until it becomes the safest thing in the room.
“You don’t owe me your mouth to earn your life.”
Her lips quiver. Confusion floods her expression—panic crashing against relief, because nothing in her world prepared her for refusal that doesn’t come with violence.
“If you ever touch me again,” I whisper, “let it be only because you want it. Not because someone trained you to survive that way.”
A soft, wounded sound leaves her. I hold her until her shaking eases, rocking her enough to keep her grounded.
“You’re safe,” I soothe into her hair. “Even from me.”
And slowly—slowly—her body softens against mine. A girl unlearning what she was forced to become.
She falls asleep against me once the trembling slows—her breath uneven but calmer. I hold her as long as she needs. I stay until her muscles stop jerking, until her throat goes quiet again, until the panic drains into exhaustion.
When I’m certain she’s sleeping deeply, I ease her down onto the bed. Her fingers twitch once when I pull away. A small whimper escapes her—not fear this time, but the kind of softness that breaks me in ways I don’t have words for.
Tucking the blanket around her, I step back before my emotions get loud enough to wake her. The moment the cabin door closes behind me, my knees almost buckle.
Cold air hits me, and my spine straightens. I grip the porch railing with both hands and bow my head, letting the night swallow the noise I didn’t let happen inside.
I’m not angry, or aroused, or even confused. More devastated than anything else.
What she did wasn’t seduction. It was fear wearing the mask of obedience.
A survival reflex someone carved into her, one forced act at a time, until her body learned to move without her mind present. The weight of that truth lands in my chest so hard my ribs ache. I squeeze the railing until the wood bites into my palms.
“No more,” I whisper into the dark. “Not ever again.”
The mountain hears it. The wind shifts. I’d rather go untouched until my dying day than take a woman without her full consent.
I try to steady myself, grounding the way Mama Rue taught us—feet planted, spine straight, inhales deep enough to clear the fog behind my eyes. The Code thrums in my bones, simple and clear: No touch taken from fear. No comfort bought with pain. No claiming without choice.
Even if that means my cradle stays empty.
I repeat it until the trembling in my arms fades.
When I finally go inside, the fire has burned low. Briar lies curled on her side, face turned toward the pillow, hair spilling over her cheek in a loose braid Mercy made. She looks younger asleep. Not safe—she doesn’t know that yet—but held. Caught between fear and rest.
I stay close enough to watch her. Far enough not to crowd her. She shifts under the blankets, reaching out blindly for warmth. Without thinking, I extend my hand toward hers, stopping an inch short. I’m not touching her but giving her the option to touch me if she chooses.
Her fingers find mine in her sleep.
She exhales like her body recognizes I didn’t leave for good.
I lie down beside her, facing the ceiling, keeping my hand where she placed it. My heart slows. My breath evens. Something inside me settles into a vow I didn’t speak out loud.
When she comes to me again—and she will—it won’t be from terror.
I turn my head to watch her one last time.
“I’ll teach you want,” I whisper. “Not fear.”
Her fingers tighten around mine in answer, the smallest gesture of trust she doesn’t know she’s giving.
Small. Fragile. And enough to undo me.
And I hold it as gently as if it’s the first thing that’s ever mattered.