Allowed. Again. My throat aches with the weight of that word.
He lifts the cloth and uncovers the bruising across my ribs. The skin there is dark, tender, still healing. For a moment, before the fear catches up, I see him. Not as a threat or a captor. As a man—broad-shouldered, careful-handed, close enough that the warmth coming off his skin mingles with the steam.
Yearning stirs low in my stomach, sharp and unfamiliar—confusing enough that I freeze. I bury it immediately. Wanting is dangerous. Wanting always came with a payment plan. But the feeling was there. Small and startled and entirely my own.
He reaches for a tin of salve, scoops some onto his fingers, then meets my eyes. “Tell me if it hurts.”
I nod.
His touch is slow. Careful. He spreads the salve in soft circles. The pain sparks under my skin, but the gentleness shocks me more. My eyes sting.
I try to distract him the only way I’ve ever known—my hand sliding toward his belt, my body leaning toward his. Offering myself. Payment. Agreement. Safety.
But he captures my hands in both of his, holding them against my stomach. Heat spikes under my skin anyway, fast and unwelcome.
“No,” he says, tone calm and certain. “That’s not what I want from you.”
Confusion twists inside me. Want. No man ever cared what I wanted, especially when my clothes were wet and clinging to me.
“You don’t buy safety with your body, Briar. Even if it helps you breathe easier.”
I swallow hard. My fingers tighten around his. His words sound strange. Their meaning foreign.
He presses his forehead to mine. “Let me take care of you.”
My eyes fall shut as I let out a trembling exhale. For the first time in years, being touched doesn’t feel like being taken.
Rafe helps me out of the tub, tenderly wrapping a fluffy towel around my shoulders. I grip the edges tight. My skin feels new. Too warm. Too exposed. Every breath drags through me with a strange lightness and an old fear tangled together.
He guides me toward the hearth so my hair can dry. I sit on the floor, curled into myself, watching his hands as he stirs the fire. Those hands could break a man. But when they touch me, they ask instead of take.
I don’t know what to do with that.
The quiet stretches. It isn’t the dangerous quiet from before. This one feels… open. I can move inside it without punishment.
My heart starts pounding in my chest, and I press my palm to it. The pressure helps, but not enough. My muscles shake. Panic crawls through my ribs, the old kind that warns me to kneel, to obey, to give so the pain won’t come.
Rafe notices immediately. “Briar?” he asks softly.
I drop to my knees and crawl toward him before my mind can form a thought. Not for sex. Not for survival. For grounding. For warmth. For a heartbeat that doesn’t frighten me.
I bury my face under his jaw, putting my cheek on his throat. The thrum of his pulse steadies the shaking in my fingers. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate for the weight of him.
He freezes, so I try to explain without words, lifting his hand and laying it flat against my chest so he feels my heartbeat racing. Then I tap his chest with my palm. Then back to mine.
Calm. Quiet the dark. Need you.
Despite his not being able to understand, the panic doesn’t let me stop there. My mouth finds the column of his throat, trying to soothe myself against warmth the same way I learned to survive. My hands slip toward his belt in a practiced motion my body remembers even when my mind doesn’t.
Rafe catches my wrists before I reach him. “No. Sweet girl… look at me.”
I shake my head, terrified he’ll twist my arms or shove me to the floor. I brace for it—muscles tight, lungs stalled.
But he only cups the sides of my face, guiding me to meet his eyes. “You’re not in danger. You’re not being punished. And you don’t need to give me anything to stay safe. I know you want to. That’s what you feel compelled to do. But I’m telling you that’s not what I want.”
My throat works around a broken sound. I tap his chest again, harder this time, begging him to understand. Then I place his hand on my cheek, holding it there.
His thumb strokes my cheekbone. “This? You want closeness. Comfort. Not sex.”
