Cold air hits me, and my spine straightens. I grip the porch railing with both hands and bow my head, letting the night swallow the noise I didn’t let happen inside.
I’m not angry, or aroused, or even confused. More devastated than anything else.
What she did wasn’t seduction. It was fear wearing the mask of obedience.
A survival reflex someone carved into her, one forced act at a time, until her body learned to move without her mind present. The weight of that truth lands in my chest so hard my ribs ache. I squeeze the railing until the wood bites into my palms.
“No more,” I whisper into the dark. “Not ever again.”
The mountain hears it. The wind shifts. I’d rather go untouched until my dying day than take a woman without her full consent.
I try to steady myself, grounding the way Mama Rue taught us—feet planted, spine straight, inhales deep enough to clear the fog behind my eyes. The Code thrums in my bones, simple and clear: No touch taken from fear. No comfort bought with pain. No claiming without choice.
Even if that means my cradle stays empty.
I repeat it until the trembling in my arms fades.
When I finally go inside, the fire has burned low. Briar lies curled on her side, face turned toward the pillow, hair spilling over her cheek in a loose braid Mercy made. She looks younger asleep. Not safe—she doesn’t know that yet—but held. Caught between fear and rest.
I stay close enough to watch her. Far enough not to crowd her. She shifts under the blankets, reaching out blindly for warmth. Without thinking, I extend my hand toward hers, stopping an inch short. I’m not touching her but giving her the option to touch me if she chooses.
Her fingers find mine in her sleep.
She exhales like her body recognizes I didn’t leave for good.
I lie down beside her, facing the ceiling, keeping my hand where she placed it. My heart slows. My breath evens. Something inside me settles into a vow I didn’t speak out loud.
When she comes to me again—and she will—it won’t be from terror.
I turn my head to watch her one last time.
“I’ll teach you want,” I whisper. “Not fear.”
Her fingers tighten around mine in answer, the smallest gesture of trust she doesn’t know she’s giving.
Small. Fragile. And enough to undo me.
And I hold it as gently as if it’s the first thing that’s ever mattered.
Chapter Five
Briar
Morning finds me before the light does.
My eyes snap open, anxiety lodged sharp in my chest. The first thing I register is warmth—heavy, steady, wrapped around me. My fingers are curled in fabric. My cheek is pressed against skin. A heartbeat pulses beneath my ear, strong and calm. My body remembers it before my mind does—and that scares me more than anything.
Danger.
I jerk back so fast the blanket tangles around my legs. I push myself to the edge of the bed, knees tucked tight, hands coveringmy mouth to swallow any sound that might slip out. My throat burns. My chest aches. He’s going to be angry. I touched him without asking. I slept against him. I moved wrong. I breathed too close—
I drag my nails across my palms, grounding myself against the sting.
He stirs behind me.
I freeze.
“Briar,” he says softly, voice rough with sleep. Not sharp. Not threatening. “You’re alright. You’re alright.”
