Chapter 14: Briar

brIAR

"Wake up, sleepyhead!" a chipper voice says in my ear.

Even without being fully awake, I can tell it's not Patrick. So, I don't do more than grumble, "Five more minutes?"

"No way, Briar boo. Breakfast is almost ready. Get your cute butt up!"

I squint an eye open to see Rory grinning over me. With the bright sunshine backlighting her, her white-blonde hair looks like a halo.

At seeing Rory's face, I remember last night and groan. Holy hell, I had way too much to drink. I can't even remember most of the night. The flashes I do have of the night have to be wrong because most of them involve cuddling with Malachi.

Pushing up on one arm, I look down and see that I'm wearing a black shirt that's obviously not mine. My brows push together in confusion as I turn to Rory. "Whose shirt am I wearing?"

"Kai's," Rory informs me with a shit-eating grin. I choke on my spit because I could've sworn she just told me I'm wearing my professor's shirt.

"As in Grimm? Malachi Grimm?" I ask, my voice getting higher with each word.

"Yep," Rory says, popping the P. She's sitting on the bed by my feet now. I must be missing something because Rory seems genuinely happy about me wearing Malachi's shirt. She doesn't have a mean bone in her body, so I know she must be happy about something else.

"What! How?"

"Well, I only know the events thirdhand. Apparently, Kai brought you upstairs because you were drunk and tired. You took your clothes off to get into bed, so he gave you his shirt to sleep in."

"Oh my God! No!" My face is hotter than a five-alarm fire. I am never, ever drinking again if this is what I do while drunk. I can't believe that I fucking stripped in front of my professor. That poor man was probably so uncomfortable. A part of me wonders if he liked what he saw. I shut that down real fast. There isn't any universe in which Malachi Grimm reciprocates my interest.

"Yes," Rory says, trying to be serious, but her grin at my predicament peeks through.

I groan, dropping my head to my hands. My voice is muffled when I ask, "How do I drop a class? I can never see Malachi again after this."

"About that," Rory begins. I raise my head to give her the darkest glare I can. "Malachi's still here. Downstairs. Making breakfast. For us."

"No," I whine. I look out Rory's window and quickly calculate my odds of surviving a two-story drop. Eh, I can probably do it. My odds are better than surviving seeing Malachi again.

"Come on, Briar. It's not going to be that bad," Rory coaxes me.

"Not that bad!" I practically screech. "Please enlighten me, Ror, how it can get much worse than stripping in front of my professor! Who probably got an eye full of my boobs!"

"Well, when you put it like that…." Rory trails off, giving me a sympathetic look.

I flop back on the bed in defeat. "At this point, my only real option is to change my name and move away from Wolves Hollow. Somewhere remote, like Siberia. At least I'll only be able to make an ass of myself in front of polar bears. Maybe I'll dye my hair and get a nose job, too. Just in case."

Rory giggles at my dramatics. I can't help my small smile at her laughter. "Briar, trust me, babe. It's really not as big of a deal as you think it is. You were basically in front of him in a bikini. That's not the end of the world."

Well, when she frames it that way, I might be overreacting. "Fine. I'll go downstairs. Let me change first." I hop off the bed and snag my backpack. After doing my business, I change out of Malachi's shirt. I pull on a fresh sports bra, tank, and joggers.

I know I should give him back his shirt, but finders keepers. It smells too good and is too comfy for me to give up willingly. I stuff his tee in the bottom of my backpack, hidden underneath my other stuff.

Exiting the bathroom, I see a giddy Rory sitting on the bed. She jumps up and grabs my hand as soon as she sees me. Rory tugs me out the door of her bedroom and down the stairs. I let her pull me along until we reach the kitchen, where I spot Malachi.

Sweet baby Jesus. He's shirtless.

Malachi Grimm is standing at the island, cooking bacon, in only a pair of jeans. My eyes greedily rove over all the tanned skin he has on display. I move my gaze from his taut pecs to his ripped six-pack, to the tantalizing glimpse of his Adonis belt. Malachi is even more muscular than I thought. He must spend a ton of time at the gym.

Once I'm able to look away from his muscles, I notice a black tattoo on his left pec. It's a coat of arms. A wolf snarls in the middle of the shield. What looks like wolfsbane flowers wind around the shield, swooping and curling on the border. The wolfsbane around the crest looks almost identical to what's on my mom's locket. What a weird coincidence.

Malachi's left arm has black vines snaking up and over his shoulder to join with the tattoo on his chest. His ink is beautiful. I can't help but wonder what the significance is.

When I finish my perusal, I whisper to Rory, "Why isn't he wearing a shirt?"

I must have been too loud because Malachi snaps his gaze to mine. His eyes sparkle with mirth. "Because you stole it last night."

I guess we're doing this, then. I thought we'd just quietly ignore what happened last night.

Apparently not.

Breathing out, I lift my chin and pull back my shoulders. I can put on a brave face to Patrick. This is a piece of cake in comparison. Doing my best to show no weakness, I haughtily respond, "It's not my fault I look better in it than you do."

Malachi grins at my sassy reply. I like seeing him like this, relaxed and carefree. It suits him better than his controlled professor persona.

I walk with a confidence I don't feel toward the island and take a seat in the middle. Rory sits next to me, with Ronan on her opposite side. Ronan gives me a tired smile as we lock eyes. He leans back against the barstool, closing his eyes.

I guess he had a long night.

Me too, dude. Me. Too.

"Eat up," Malachi orders as he shoves a plate my way. It's overflowing with eggs, bacon, and sausage. I shake my head at his bossiness but do as he demands. While I'm eating, Malachi walks around the island to sit next to me. I'm absolutely starving. I demolish the plate in record time. Only when I'm done eating does Malachi ask, "How's the head, Briar?"

That's right. Malachi also witnessed me massively misjudge how much to drink.

Awesome.

Yet another way I've embarrassed myself in front of him.

Taking stock of how I feel, I'm surprised to discover I feel great. "Actually, my head's fine. I don't have a headache or anything."

"Probably from sleeping next to your ma—ow!" Ronan yelps from the end of the island.

I turn to look at him, noticing him rubbing his shin and avoiding eye contact with me. Rory's facing him, so I can't see her expression either. "What?"

"I was, uh, sleep talking. Yep, that's it. I talk in my sleep. Sorry." Ronan nods to himself as he talks. Rory groans at his explanation.

"Ohhh-kay," I draw out, wondering why he's being so weird this morning. Turning back to Malachi, I see him glaring at his cousin. "Am I missing something?"

"No!" all three of them shout at the same time. Rory and Ronan are wide-eyed and look panicked. Malachi just looks exasperated, shaking his head at his cousins.

"Real convincing, guys," I respond skeptically.

"Sorry, snookums, we're just tired. Last night was wicked long. We get weird when we're exhausted, especially Ronan." Rory tries to be nonchalant. Chuckling at the nickname, I decide to let their weirdness go. I don't really believe her, but whatever they're hiding isn't my business.

Rory changes the subject, and the four of us talk for hours. I love seeing the dynamic between Ronan, Rory, and Malachi. I feel warm fuzzies in my chest seeing how close they are. My chest also aches, wishing I had a large family like they do. Shoving my melancholy into another box in my mind, I vicariously soak up their closeness while I can.

After Ronan and Rory drop me back at WHU, I start the two-hour walk home. I don't particularly want to go home to Patrick, so I'm happy to waste time walking instead of running. I forgot to plug in my phone last night, so it's dead and I can't listen to music. I enjoy walking in the cold air, soaking in the nature around me, though. The tall pines, the bird chirps, the rustle of small animals, the breeze blowing, the last of the sunlight.

As night falls, I stare at the sky, picking out familiar constellations until Patrick's house comes into view. My mom used to love constellations. She taught me everything she knew. Seeing Orion, his dogs, and the seven sisters makes me feel closer to her.

"I love you, Mama," I whisper to the night sky, wondering if she can hear me wherever she is. Shaking my head at my wishful thinking, I walk through the ostentatious iron gates.

Staring at the cold white-and-gray monstrosity Patrick calls home, I miss the warmth of Ronan and Rory's place. Even with it being so massive, it felt lived in, unlike the mausoleum in front of me.

I open the front door, a stupid smile on my face from the great day I've had.

"Where have you been?" Patrick barks as I close the door behind me. The smile slips from my face as I take in his slanted brows, glaring gaze, and downturned mouth. From his glazed eyes and the whiskey I can smell wafting off him from here, I know he's drunk.

"I was at a sleepover," I say carefully as I walk further into the foyer cautiously.

"A sleepover at the fucking Wynters' mansion, you mean!" Patrick shouts at me.

How does he know that?

I've been so careful to keep my friendship with Ronan and Rory secret from him. Realistically, I know he probably can't hurt them, but I'd never forgive myself if something happened to them because of me. "Yes," I respond quietly, already knowing how this night is going to turn out.

I slowly slip my backpack down my shoulders and drop it soundlessly to the floor. With the toe of my tennis shoe, I push the bag behind a column as I walk past it. I don't want my phone to break or Malachi's shirt to be ruined.

"So, you're whoring yourself out to anyone close to the alpha, now? Pathetic!" Patrick spits at me, stalking closer as he speaks.

What the actual fuck is he talking about? Alpha what?

Christ. He must be wasted to be nonsensically rambling.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I tell him. Because I don't. I'd sure like to know what wild shenanigans he thinks I get up to, though. It sounds more interesting than what I actually do.

"You lying little bitch! I can smell them on you! You think you're so smart, huh? Sneaking around with the Wynters behind my back. You stupid girl, I will always find out!" Patrick screams, spittle flying in my face.

Before I have a chance to reiterate that I don't know what he's talking about, Patrick backhands me so hard, I stumble. My lip splits on impact. Warm blood dribbles down my chin. Patrick's well-placed punch to my solar plexus has me bending over, wheezing for breath.

He then shoves me down to the ground with a cruel hand on my shoulder. The loud crack of my knees hitting the marble echoes in the foyer. I wouldn't be surprised if at least one kneecap is fractured from the force. A kick to my back sends me sprawling across the floor. He must hit a kidney with that kick. I'm momentarily blinded by the white-hot pain that lances through my back.

A scream builds in my throat, but I force it down by biting my cheek. Coppery liquid gushes into my mouth, giving me something else to focus on. I've learned the hard way that making noise only makes it worse.

At this point, I retreat to an often-visited corner of my mind. It's my mental haven, far away from any pain and despair. I focus on designing plans for the house Ava and I will live in when we escape this place. Going over the plans I know front and back allows me to escape from reality for a bit.

It's working pretty well until I feel a sharp blow against my left side. Blinking open my eyes, I see that I'm in the fetal position, curled against the staircase. The top of the bottom stair is digging into my left side, slightly under my sports bra. Another kick and I feel the stair pierce my side. A third, and I feel my ribs give way with a sickening crack.

I desperately try to hold back my scream, but a pained whimper escapes my mouth anyway. This only enrages Patrick further.

When I look down, I see the pointy edge of the stair tread is a half an inch into my side. While I want to puke at the image, I know I need to get it out of me before Patrick does damage I can't come back from.

With every last remaining ounce of strength I have, I use my hands to push myself off the stair step. I can feel my skin and muscle rip further as I fling myself back. Panting, I curl my legs up and wrap my arms around them to protect the injury as best as I can.

I must pass out because the next time I open my eyes, I'm alone. I'm lying in a pool of my own sticky, rapidly cooling blood. Groaning, it takes me several tries to push up onto shaky arms. I sit on my ass, trying to figure out how to get up without leaning on my swollen and tender knees.

While I'm down here, I need to clean up the blood puddle. Using my right arm, I carefully inch my tank top up and over my head. I try to jostle my broken ribs as little as possible. My tank is already soaked with blood on the front. I use the back to clean up the white marble as best as I can. When only a few streaks remain, I call it quits. It'll have to be good enough.

Seeing no other way to get off the floor, I slowly turn onto my hands and knees. Pain flares sharply in my ribs at the motion. My abused knees protest holding up my weight. Eventually I get myself onto my feet. I hobble as quickly as I can to the column where I stashed my backpack. If I leave it down here, it'll be gone in the morning.

Clutching my bag in my right hand, I limp up the stairs to my room. Pulling open the door, I step inside before closing and locking it. If Patrick wants to murder me tonight, the lock won't keep him out. But it's the thought that counts.

I let my bag thump against the ground. Making my way to my nightstand, I yank open the top drawer. Spotting the sewing kit I keep in there for just this reason, I take it out with shaking fingers.

Threading the curved needle seems to take forever as steadying my hands proves nearly impossible. Once the needle is threaded, I pinch my torn skin and muscle together with my left hand. Gritting my teeth, I begin the gruesome task of stitching up the gaping wound with my other hand.

I'd rather not bleed to death tonight.

Once my least favorite part of my post-beating ritual is done, I tie and snip the last thread. Dropping the needle and scissors on the ground, I stumble the few steps to my bed. Crawling in and carefully lying on my back, I gratefully let the blackness hovering on the edges of my vision claim me.