His thumb moves in a small circle meant to calm, not command. His breath evens, slow and steady, handing me a rhythm to follow.
“You’re learning,” he soothes. “Not broken.”
A new sob tears through me, softer this time, but too heavy to hold alone. I turn my head toward him without meaning to. My eyes find his—dark with worry, with tenderness, with trust I’m not that good at giving him yet.
He opens his arms a little, and I crawl into him.
He gathers me carefully, lifting me into his lap, wrapping the blanket around both of us. I bury my face in his throat, my tears soaking into his skin. His arms tighten, strong but gentle, holding me together while I shake.
“There you go,” he whispers. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”
I clutch at him, terrified he’ll let go if I stop crying. He doesn’t.
“You’re not bad,” he soothes into my hair. “You’re not broken. And you’re not alone.”
His hand finds mine under the blanket. He guides it to his chest—where his heartbeat thuds steady, unafraid. “You feel that? That’s me. I’m right here.”
My fingers flatten as my body settles into him, remembering safety better than my mind does.
When the tremors finally slow, he kisses the top of my head. “I’m proud of you for coming,” he whispers. “That’s all that matters.”
I close my eyes and press my palm harder to his heart.
And for the first time since the woods… the shame eases.
Chapter Eight
Rafe
Minutes stretch, but I don’t push. Finally, she uncurls a little. Her hand emerges first, trembling, and I offer mine palm-up. She takes it, and despite her body shaking against me, she clings, burying her face in my neck.
“That’s my girl,” I whisper, stroking her back in slow circles. “You’re home.”
She shifts in my hold, not pulling away but coming closer. I feel the change before I understand it. Her body stops bracing and starts reaching. My chest goes very still. I force it down—now’s not the time for that fire.
But then she lifts her head, our gazes locking, and there’s something new there. Not panic. Not the hollow obedience I’ve glimpsed in her before, the kind drilled into her by bastards who didn’t deserve to breathe her air. This is clear, steady. Her hands slide up my arms, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, mapping me, choosing me.
“Briar?” I rasp, working my throat.
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she moves, deliberate and slow, swinging a leg over me until she’s straddling my lap, her weight settling against me like she belongs there, like she’s always belonged there, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Fuck. Her hips rock once, tentative, testing, and her eyes stay locked on mine—no darting away, no shame. This isn’t her falling back on old patterns; this is her reaching for something new. Something real.
She leans in, her forehead dropping to my temple as she makes a decision she already knows the answer to. Then her lips brush my ear, and she whispers, soft, broken, more breath than word: “Yours.”
It hits me hard as stone as it locks into place. My hands tighten on her waist before I can stop them, body going still. God, I need those words more than air, more than the release building in my blood.
But I hesitate, searching her face. “You sure, sweet girl? Not because you think you have to. Not out of fear.”
Every instinct in me surges forward. Every rule I live by slams down just as hard.
I cup her cheek, thumb stroking her skin, giving her space to pull away if she needs. “Tell me this is what you want. For you. Because once I make you mine, you’re mine forever.”
Her eyes soften, and she nods, slow and certain. No hesitation. Then she moves again—closer, deliberate—closing the space I left. She takes my hand, guides it to her breast, pressing it there so I feel her heartbeat racing—not from terror, but desire. “Yours,” she mouths again, grinding down against me, her heat seeping through our clothes. It’s choice. Pure, unfiltered, and my resolve cracks under the weight of it.
“Christ, Briar,” I groan, pulling her closer. “You’ve got me. All of me.” I kiss her then, slow and deep, tasting her consent like it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever known. My hands roam, gentle but claiming, mapping every scar, every curve, whispering praises against her skin. “So brave. So mine.” She arches into me, and I know—this is healing, not harm.
This is us.
I lift her carefully, carrying her gently to the bed. My sweet girl is precious, unbreakable glass that’s survived hell. Laying her down, I strip her slow, kissing every inch of skin I uncover, murmuring how beautiful she is, how strong. Her scars glow in the firelight, and I trace them with my tongue. I take my time with each one to show her they don’t frighten me. That nothingabout her does. She gasps, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer. Not demanding—inviting.
