Briella giggles while adding her last scone to the baking sheet. They both settled on triangles. And we’ve refrained from peeking.
I have this nagging feeling she’s up to something. Why would she suggest a bake-off? Is she that secure in her skills? I observe her, wondering more about her past. And I want nothing more than to hear her say my fighter name again. When Rory doesn’t invade her space, her body language is so casual, so relaxed. Like she doesn’t even care about the challenge.
I spent so many years in the underground, assessing, judging, and learning the behaviors of other fighters. I memorized all their body language. She reminds me of the ones who’d already thrown the fight but had a bigger bet going on behind the scenes.
Raphael lingers in the back of the kitchen, his arms at his sides, hair pulled into a low ponytail as usual. For the first time, he’s not wearing one of his caps. But she hasn’t stopped wearing the one she took. Those purple curls dangle along her cheeks, bringing attention to her pretty features. No. Fucking gorgeous. She knows it, too, but she doesn’t use it to her advantage.
All about the mind and heart for her.
Maybe that’s why I like her so much.
Because it wasn’t about brute strength or muscles in the underground. It was about control and calculation. It was about paying attention to your surroundings and sizing up your opponent. It was mind fucks and judging your enemy, learning his weakness, and exploiting it.
And I’d swear to every fucking god in this fucked up universe, she’s doing the same.
Maybe that’s why she scares the hell out of me.
Because if I can’t even look at my ghosts, how could she?
27
Jude
“FIVE MINUTES LEFT. ARE YE SCARED NOW, LASS?”
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Weight of the World”
Whenever Rory pulls his shit, from whacking her ass with the rolling pin to sticking his fingers in her scone batter, her eyes seek Raphael’s. Like she’s secretly asking his permission.
All I know is he doesn’t step in. Like he knows she can handle herself.
Other than her dancing around in the kitchen in that pretty dress, her castigating Rory arouses my blood and surges it south of the equator. I may have come twice while stealing five orgasms from her in the shower, but I can’t get enough of her.
I’ll never forget what she looked like when she dropped the sheets after Raphael ordered her to strip. Fuck, our goddess…she has a body that just won’t quit. Full, rounded breasts with barely a thread’s gap between them. Immaculate rosy nipples and a light flush of quarter-sized areola.
She could be anyone’s fantasy. But add the ample bottom and curvy hips, she’s the ultimate fantasy. Love the subtle plumpness of her stomach and thighs visible through the dress. She’s notdisproportionately unhealthy. The light speckling of freckles only enhances her vivid hazel eyes. And those violet curls falling to just above her waist. Skin like an angel.
Exquisite. Celestial. Angelic. They all seem too tame to describe her.
Having explored the wonderland between her thighs, I can testify how heavenly she is.
Despite her shyness and how she rubbed one arm, she didn’t cower before us in that room. Just like now—with Rory—she might tense, but she doesn’t make herself smaller. She doesn’t even look at the floor. Whatever my Babydoll has been through, like the scars on her wrist, it’s clear she has conquered demons. Perhaps…more than us.
More than conquer, she canplaywith the goddamn demons. She does it with him, leaning in. They feed on each other. Fire and gasoline.
At one point, I notice Vincent darting his eyes to their corners, glancing at me, muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. His chest tight. For fuck’s sake!—I’ll discuss Kinship law with Raphael later when it comes to the fighter. Still fighting to this day, still not understanding he doesn’t need to. Doesn’t need to put up a fucking front. Not with me.
Not when I was the one who patched him up after all those fights. Just like I patch everyone up. I pick up all the pieces Raphael leaves.
Seth fixes fences. I fix flesh and blood and bone. But I can’t fix Vincent. And the broody bastard doesn’t need it—if only he knew that.
At some point, his shit needs to end. Briella is cracking through his crusty exterior. The cracks will allow me to break right through his armor.
Rory and Briella now stand on opposite sides of the kitchen, waiting for their scones to finish baking. Every now and then,she sways her hips, her glowing eyes stray to Rory as he downs more coffee. Grumbling under his breath, he fills his tumbler again, then glances around, searching for his Scotch. It’s behind her.
He crosses the distance, invading her space, then jerks a finger and barks, “Whiskey.”
