64
Raphael
SHE IS BLEEDING INTERNALLY FOR ME, BUT MOST FOR HERSELF.
Citizen Soldier Playlist
(for Briella)
“Limit”
“Invisible”
“Bedroom Ceiling”
“Who I Am”
“Born Without a Heart” - Faouzia
Briella lifts her head before I do it for her. As if she flawlessly predicted when the crying was supposed to stop.
Before anything else, I strip her of the lingerie, leaving her nude on my lap, apart from the compression sleeve on her leg and the arrowhead pin in her hair.
While hunger may consume my brothers, their honor, reverence, and respect for her are greater. They do not require my command to stay on their motherfucking knees before her.
Paying homage to our Queen.
With her back to my chest, the fragrant scent of her wild curls curling in the air before my face, I coil a hand around her throat. Not quite gripping. Just anchoring. Her body is soft and warm, flushed, and glistening from sweat. Her nipples are rosy pink and stiff, her lips still swollen. And her wetness still coats her thighs.
It’s taking everything for their eyes not to stray. I warn each of them with a pointed glare to respect the trauma she is about to release. They will only interact if I choose. But for now? I own her.
I will hunt her soul.
And hold her scars.
I will taste the blood when she opens them.
Now, she draws in air, presses her lips into a tight seam, and prepares to unveil the demons.
Time for her to stare down those demons, show them her pretty claws and fangs and the fire I’ve resurrected in her.
Tonight, she will use that fire to burn them down.
And cast them into the pits of hell along with ours.
With a whimper, she leans against my chest, her head tipping onto my shoulder like she’s trying to pull herself back from the ledge of a cliff.
She clenches her hands so tightly her knuckles turn bone-white. I catch the flicker of something ancient behind her lashes. Not age—no, worse. Memory.
I don’t breathe when she starts speaking.
“I was five when I saw my mother murdered.” Quiet words. Halting. Words scraped raw.
Rory’s snarl is sharp, animalistic. Vincent’s fist curls on his leg like he’s already gripping someone’s throat. Jude doesn’t speak, but his jaw flexes like he’s grinding something back. Seth’s watching her…as if he concentrates hard enough, he can take it from her.
I don’t move, apart from curving my fingers upon her lovely throat.
“I never knew my father. He died shortly after my mother gave birth to me. But the Prophet…” she hisses, digging her fingernails into my pants.
