Chapter Six
Rafe
I’m splitting kindling outside when I hear footsteps on the trail—too steady to be Briar, too light to be Knox, too fast to be Boone. I wipe my hands on my pants as Silas steps into the clearing, breath clouding the air, jaw tight.
“Morning,” I say, though the look on his face tells me this isn’t a social call.
Silas glances toward the cabin door, then back at me. “We need to talk.”
I nod and lead him around the side of the cabin, away from any windows. He doesn’t waste time.
“Tracks near the ridge,” he says. “Boot prints. Heavy stride. Drag marks beside them like someone was hauled or stumbling. We followed them east until they cut off on rock.”
My chest goes cold. “How fresh?”
“Not old.” His voice drops. “And they match Daryl’s weight.”
The quiet that follows is dangerous. My hands curl into fists before I realize it. I force them open.
Silas studies me, then speaks lower. “I know she’s here, Rafe. Word moves fast—Mama Rue asked Tandy to prep extra furs for a woman’s bed. Mercy’s been scarce. You’ve been gone for two days.”
A beat.
“You don’t have to explain. But you do need to know—if Daryl’s sniffing around, he’s doing it for one reason.”
My stomach knots. “He wants her back.”
Silas nods. “Or wants to destroy what he thinks he lost control of.”
The words hit hard. I straighten, breath steadying into something colder, sharper. “He won’t touch her again. Not while she’s under my roof.”
“Didn’t think he would.” Silas claps my shoulder once, firm. “We’ll double patrols. Elias’s already on the ridge. Knox is down by the river trail. But keep your doors bolted, and don’t leave her alone.”
“I won’t.”
A small sound hits the air behind us—thin, sharp, breaking. My blood chills.
I turn.
Briar stands in the doorway. Bare feet. Blanket around her shoulders. Eyes wide—far too wide—locked on me. Something inside me locks just as hard. Her forehead creases, her irises suddenly darkening.
She heard. Every word.
“Briar,” I say gently.
She starts shaking—first her hands, then her arms, then her whole body. The blanket slips. Her knees buckle. She grabs the doorframe with both hands but can’t seem to pull enough air into her lungs.
I move toward her slow, palms open.
She doesn’t see slow. She sees threat.
A small, strangled sound pushes up her throat—fear trying to escape even though she’s been trained to silence it.
“Hey,” my voice drops low. “It’s me. It’s just me.”
She stumbles forward, crashing into my chest. The force of it hits me deeper than it should. The tremors running through her aren’t small—they’re violent, frantic, unstoppable.
I wrap my arms around her, steady as stone. “It’s alright,” I croon against her hair. “I’ve got you.”
She shakes her head fiercely, pressing her face against my throat, breath hot and panicked. Her hands cling harder—begging, warning, pleading all at once.
Silas watches, grief in his eyes. “You’ll keep her safe,” he says quietly.
“I will.”
Briar makes another broken sound, burying deeper into me. My arms tighten around her.
“You’re safe.” I let the vow take shape in my chest. “Nobody gets near you. Not him. Not ever again.”
She trembles harder—but this time she isn’t trying to get away. Instead, she’s holding on.
Briar won’t stop shaking.
Even after Silas leaves, even after the echo of his boots fades down the trail, she trembles against me like her bones are trying to tear free.
I don’t speak for a long moment. Words won’t reach her yet. Presence will.
I slide one arm under her knees and the other around her back. She doesn’t fight or flinch, just curls in tighter, snuggling her face into my shoulder as I lift her.
“Alright,” I clutch her like she’s mine. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you warm.”
Inside the cabin, the fire burns low. I nudge it higher with one hand while keeping her gathered close. She’s cold with fear. Not her skin—her whole body. It vibrates through my chest.
I sit on the edge of the mattress with her in my arms. Her legs pull in close, folding over my lap. She tucks her head under my jaw again, the place she always seeks when her mind tips sideways.
“You with me?” I whisper.
She nods against my skin, but her body tells the truth—she’s in two places at once: here, wrapped in my arms… and somewhere far darker.
I shift back to lie against the headboard, bringing her with me. The blanket slips, and she clutches me harder, pressing her cheek to my chest like she needs to hear my heartbeat to stay on this side of fear.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Just stay here. Stay with me.”
Her hands slide down my sides. Not hesitant—familiar. Practiced. Her body moving in a pattern she didn’t create.
“Briar,” I say softly, but she’s already shifting.
She settles between my legs, blanket falling away as she crawls forward. Her palms rest on my thighs, trembling but deliberate. She lifts her face to look at me—wide eyes, glossy with fear and need mashed together.
She isn’t offering sex. She’s seeking quiet the only way she knows.
“Sweet girl,” I whisper, lifting my hand to her cheek, thumb brushing the warmth there, “before you do anything… I need to ask you a question.”
Every instinct I have says stop this. Every instinct says hold her anyway.
She freezes. Her eyes dart, waiting for punishment.
I keep my touch steady. “You scared right now?” I ask. “Or do you want this because it calms you?”
Her throat works around a silent sound. She presses her palm to her chest—her rapid heartbeat—then offers me her hand. Then her mouth brushes lightly against my skin through the fabric of my pants.
Not sexual. A request.
“You sure?” I ask again, softer. “If you don’t want this, if you’re doing it because you think you owe me—tell me no. Just pull back. I’ll stop.”
She shakes her head hard—not no. Then she takes my wrist and brings my hand to the top of her head, guiding it there. Her language for this anchors me.
When she leans forward again, she slows, waiting for any sign of refusal.
I slide my thumb across her cheekbone in a consent check—gentle, lingering contact. She melts into the touch, exhaling, eyes closing.
“Alright,” I whisper. “I hear you.”
This isn’t sex. This is Briar’s nervous system reaching for calm, and I won’t rip that away from her. She lowers herself in one smooth, deliberate motion—her choice, her initiation, her body reclaiming something that once belonged only to fear.
My hand rests lightly on her hair. “Go slow. And remember… you’re in control. I stop the moment you want me to.”
She makes a quiet sound—a small, raw note of relief—before continuing. And I hold her with my voice, my care, and my restraint, giving her the steadiness her shaking hands can’t find yet.
The moment I give her that quiet yes, everything inside Briar shifts.
Her shoulders drop. Her breathing slows. The hard shaking that’s been tearing through her eases almost at once. Her mouth softens. The panic leaves her eyes in pieces.
It’s not subtle. Her body knows this gives her something she needs, and the relief hits fast enough to shake me. The wild, hunted edge in her starts to go still. Even her pulse, frantic under my hand a second ago, begins to settle, and I understand how much she needs this. How much she needs me.
Briar lowers herself fully now, moving with intention. Her hands steady on my thighs. She pauses only once, lifting her gaze to mine, searching for the threat she expects.
There isn’t one.
I stroke her cheek again—our unspoken agreement. She nods, trusting the safety of that touch more than any word.
She begins. I don’t watch her. I watch her hands—how they loosen as her body finds rhythm. I watch her shoulders—how they relax the smallest amount.
I watch her breath—how it evens into something closer to calm.
What I don’t let myself watch is everything else.
The heat of her. The soft sounds she makes without meaning to.
The way my body answers all of it with a want so fierce it takes every piece of the Code I’ve ever learned to hold still beneath it.
I struggle through it. Slow. Deliberate. This moment belongs to her healing, not my hunger. But God help me, wanting her is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. And denying that want might be the hardest.
But I can’t act on any of it. I won’t. This is a girl quieting her nervous system the only way she knows how.
My hand stays anchored in her hair as a point of contact, grounding for both of us. Every muscle in my body is locked down, controlled. The sound that escapes is barely audible, cracked open by the sight of her trying so hard to feel safe, and using my body to do it.
“Briar,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She answers with a soft hum—her version of I’m alright. It hits me harder than anything she’s doing.
I close my eyes, chest rising and falling too quickly. The pressure builds—not just physical, but emotional, overwhelming. Her trust wraps around me tighter than her body ever could.
“Sweet girl,” I whisper, giving her one last chance to pull away. “I’m going to...”
She doesn’t stop. She moves in with delicate certainty, choosing this moment for herself. When release hits, it’s quiet—my breath punching out, hand tightening in her hair for a heartbeat before loosening again. My whole body goes still. A wave of something deep and breaking rolls through my chest.
She rests her cheek on my thigh afterward, the storm inside her finally settling. Her hands uncurl from fists into open palms on my legs. Her shoulders drop fully for the first time since I found her in the woods.
I stare down at her, undone by the trust.
Slowly, I pull her up, guiding her into my arms. She comes willingly, settling against my chest with a sigh that breaks me open. I wrap the blanket around both of us and hold her tight, chin resting on the top of her head.
“You’re safe,” I whisper into her hair. Not a promise—an oath etched into my bone.
Her fingers find my heart through the blanket. Tap once. Tap again.
My throat burns. My arms tighten.
She plants her face harder into my neck—her closest form of yes. I hold her until her trembling stops, until the weight of her trust stops hurting in my chest.
Outside, the wind shifts. Inside, she sleeps in my arms.
I’ll kill anyone who tries to take her from me.
And that’s not a threat. It’s a fact.