Slowly, I pull her up, guiding her into my arms. She comes willingly, settling against my chest with a sigh that breaks me open. I wrap the blanket around both of us and hold her tight, chin resting on the top of her head.
“You’re safe,” I whisper into her hair. Not a promise—an oath etched into my bone.
Her fingers find my heart through the blanket. Tap once. Tap again.
My throat burns. My arms tighten.
She plants her face harder into my neck—her closest form of yes. I hold her until her trembling stops, until the weight of her trust stops hurting in my chest.
Outside, the wind shifts. Inside, she sleeps in my arms.
I’ll kill anyone who tries to take her from me.
And that’s not a threat. It’s a fact.
Chapter Seven
Briar
Rafe moves quietly in the morning. He always does.
I watch him from the bed, my body wrapped in blankets, eyes following the slow rhythm of his steps. He stokes the fire. He kneels to tie his boots. He slices something on the counter, the blade tapping wood in a steady pattern.
He’s calm. Which means I can settle.
I let my eyes move over him the way I never let myself before. The breadth of his shoulders. The way his shirt pulls across his back when he reaches for the kettle. The steadiness of his hands—those big, careful hands that have never once taken anything from me.
Something warm and unfamiliar moves through my chest and settles lower, and I go very still, frightened by it. Not because it feels like danger. Because it doesn’t. I don’t know what to do with wanting. It feels dangerous in a different way. I’ve never been safe enough to find out. I pull the blanket tighter and look away before he catches me looking.
My face burns when I think about last night, and I duck my chin deeper into my chest. But the feeling under the heat isn’t shame. It’s something smaller and warmer. My mouth remembers him. The weight of him. The heat. The way he let me have all the control. The way his body answered mine without turning cruel.
No yanking my hair. No holding my head down.
That is what stays with me most. Not fear. Relief. My heart rate slowed almost at once. The shaking eased. The panic left me in pieces. And under all of that was something I still don’t know how to name. I liked making him feel good. I liked that he let me give without taking anything from me. I liked the quiet power of it.
And I want to do it again.
I want him. All of him.
Not because he saved me, but because he’s a good man.
When he notices I’m awake, he gives me that soft half-smile. The kind that asks nothing. The kind that says he’s glad I’m here.
“Morning, sweetheart.” His voice is warm. Soft. Safe.
I sit up, pulling the blanket tight around me. My chest aches from yesterday’s panic. My limbs feel heavy. But I watch him, waiting for him to tell me what he needs from me.
He turns toward me, hands wiping on a cloth. “There’s a clan supper tonight. I want to take you with me.”
My heart drops so fast I sway.
No.
No people.
No eyes.
No noise.
