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.”
