Chapter Nine
Briar
Time moves different in Rafe’s cabin.
Not in days. Not in nights.
In breaths.
In how my body learns the shape of safety without being told.
Those first few days, I slept curled under the bed, knees tight to my chest, blanket wrapped around me.
Rafe never pulled me out. Never lectured.
Never tried to ease me into the mattress.
He simply knelt each morning and said, “Morning, sweetheart,” as if the place I chose to sleep didn’t change what I am to him.
But as the weeks stretched, the shadows lost their teeth. The nights started feeling less like danger waiting to happen.
One morning, I opened my eyes and realized I wasn’t on the floor at all.
Now every time the sun rises, I’m in Rafe’s bed, glued to his side, his arm heavy over my waist. My fingers are tangled in his.
My body still remembers him. The stretch, the heat, the way I opened and didn’t break.
I don’t remember the first time I climbed up.
I only remember warmth winning over fear.
And somewhere in those lengthening days, we found our rhythm.
Every morning and every night Rafe takes me—slow and deep when I need tenderness, hard and claiming when the old ghosts claw too close—until the line between safety and pleasure blurs completely.
I fall asleep with him still buried inside me more often than not, his cock warm and thick, keeping me full and grounded while his hand rests protectively over my heart.
Each time he fills me, each time I come apart around him whispering his name, another piece of the broken girl I used to be quietly heals.
In his arms, in his bed, under the steady weight of his body, I am learning what it means to be wanted, not used. Adored, not owned.
My body sometimes still startles, old habits flaring, but then his lips brush my cheek. Slow. Even. A sensation my bones have come to trust, so my heart eases.
And I don’t ever slip under the bed again.
The grunting left me slowly too.
Not all at once—each sound peeled away a layer I thought I needed. The pencil helped. Rafe leaves paper everywhere. He knows I’ll use it when the words press hard against the inside of my throat.
I write more now:
GOOD DAY
WALK
WATER
YOURS
The last one makes his mouth tilt into a smile I feel in my stomach. I write it slower than the others. My chest tight. My stomach warm.
Sometimes I try to speak. Just a word. My lips shape the sound. I try so hard, but nothing comes.
When I brace for anger, that doesn’t come either. Instead, I always try again.
I remember a time a few weeks ago, when my breath sputtered out wrong, and a strange noise spilled from me—high and soft.
A laugh.
It startled me. Startled him too, so I clapped a hand over my mouth, unsure if I broke a rule. But Rafe’s eyes softened, warm spreading through them.
“There she is,” he whispered.
Something melted inside me.
And every time I think of that moment, I smile.
In the evenings, he sits in his chair by the fire, carving or mending tools. I sit close enough for my shoulder to feel the heat of his leg, then closer still until my head rests lightly against his knee. Close enough that I don’t feel steady without him.
The first time I did it, I tensed, waiting for harsh hands or orders.
Instead, his palm lowered to the back of my head, fingers sliding through my hair slow and careful. My whole body loosed at the touch. Not because I owed him for it. Because I wanted it. I stayed there until sleep pulled at my eyes.
Rafe always lets me sleep against him.
I tap Rafe’s wrist twice. It’s our signal for I want to go.
He looks down at my hand, then up at my face, always searching for fear first. My chest is tight, but it isn’t panic. It’s sharper than that. Brighter.
He nods once. “Alright, sweetheart. You track with me today.”
The words land deep.
I nod back, quick, almost shy, and take the coat he holds out. It swallows my hands. I tie the sleeves up with a strip of cloth, inhaling the scent—smoke, pine, him—and any nerves inside me steady.
When I glance up, he’s watching me. Not like I might break. Like he’s been waiting for me to come along with him while he does his favorite activity.
We step into the trees.
The forest breathes around us. Branches shift, leaves whisper, the low hush of aliveness but not hunting. My body loosens before I tell it to. I move ahead without thinking, crouching, reading the ground the way I always have.
A bent blade of grass. A stone nudged aside. A drag in the soft earth.
Fresh.
I press my fingers into the track.
Rafe comes up behind me, stopping where I can feel him but not touch him. “What do you see?”
I trace the shape into my palm. Wide pad. Claw marks.
Bear, I mouth.
He whistles low. “Good eye.”
I shake my head once. Not eye.
He studies me a second, then tips his chin forward. “Lead me.”
The word hits harder than it should.
Lead.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat and turn.
The trail unfolds under my feet. Broken stems. Pressed earth. The quiet language of something large moving through the mountain. Rafe stays behind me, and I appreciate his care so much. He’s close enough to guard, but far enough that I don’t feel monitored.
Every few steps, I glance back, and he’s there. Each time, he gives me a small nod.
We move like that for a while until my breathing settles into something steady. Just moving. Listening.
Then the forest shifts with a low rustle ahead. My hand lifts without thought.
Rafe stops instantly.
I listen. Heavy movement. Not crashing. Passing through. The air turns thick, musky.
I point upward at the fresh, broken branches. He follows my gesture, and immediately understands.
The bear steps into view.
Huge. Dark. Scarred along one side.
My breath stills.
Rafe’s presence tightens behind me, forming into readiness.
I let my shoulders drop. Turn slightly. Soften my stance, so I don’t meet the bear’s eyes. I don’t square up. I don’t challenge. Reaching back, I tug Rafe’s sleeve.
One step.
He follows.
Another.
The bear watches. Snorts. Considers.
I keep my breathing slow. Even. Let my body say what my voice can’t.
We’re not a threat.
The bear turns and shakes. Then his weight lumbers heavy on the forest floor as he fades into the trees. Silence settles in his wake.
Rafe exhales behind me, rough around the edges. “Sweet girl… you just saved us from a bad encounter.”
I blink at him.
He steps in front of me, close but not crowding, and cups my cheek. “You knew exactly how to move. You’re a natural.”
Heat floods my chest—sharp, unfamiliar, almost too big to hold. I catch his wrist, turn his hand palm up, and trace letters with my finger.
GOOD?
He huffs out a soft laugh. “Better than good. You’re incredible.”
The word sinks deep, and my chest loosens.
I tap his forearm once.
Twice.
Thank you.
He covers my hand with his, warm and steady. “Let’s go home. I want you doing this with me more often.”
Home. The word lands differently now.
We walk back through the trees together.
The ground feels the same—but not. My tracks run beside his. My body remembers danger, but it also remembers this moment. The way the bear turned away. The way I knew how to ask it to.
By the time the cabin comes into view, my legs ache in a good way. My hands smell like earth and pine. My chest feels too full.
Inside, Rafe stokes the fire.
I sit on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in his coat, watching him move. The quiet stretches between us, but it doesn’t intrude. It holds.
He glances back. Smiles slow. “You were something else out there today. I’m proud of you, sweet girl. We should go tracking together more often. I enjoy your company.”
The words hit deep.
I look down, heat rising, unsure what to do with it. The feeling builds—too big, too bright, needing a place to go.
So I move across the room and place my forehead between his shoulder blades.
He stills, then eases, his hand coming up to cover mine. “You alright?”
I nod, even though it isn’t simple. I’m not afraid. I’m not calm either.
I’m… open.
He waits. Doesn’t push.
I step back and grab the paper and pencil from the table. My hand trembles, but not from fear. I nod once, then write:
HOME
Tapping my heart, I set it down between us.
His face shifts—quiet, careful, like the moment matters more than anything he’s ever been given. Looking at the paper, he picks it up and then his gaze meets mine.
He doesn’t speak, just takes my hand and brings his mouth to my knuckles. Once. Then again. Each touch slow. Certain.
The old words try to rise—wrong, broken, ruined—but they don’t stick. They slide off the page, off his hands, off the way he looks at me.
They don’t belong here.
I close my eyes.
And this time I let the feeling stay.