Chapter 16: Briar

brIAR

Three in the morning is way too early to be awake. I know the trek to school is going to take longer than usual, so I'm out of bed at this ungodly hour.

Reaching into the shower, I crank it to as hot as it can go. I'm in the mood for a scalding shower because it's going to hurt either way. No point in suffering through a cold shower. Before I get in, I wrap my stitched wound in plastic wrap to keep it from getting wet. Pretty sure getting water in an open cut is a no-no.

Stepping under the showerhead, I hiss as the spray pelts my body. The water feels like hundreds of tiny daggers digging into every bruise I have. As I adjust to the almost burning spray, I lean my forehead against the cool white tile and let a tear slip free. Only one, though. I'm not sure I have the strength to put myself back together again if I completely fall apart.

I keep thinking my tears would have dried up by now. They're still here, threatening to undo me completely. Jesus. I need to get a grip before I end up a blubbering mess on my shower floor.

Gritting my teeth, I power through my shower. Lifting my hands above my head to shampoo my scalp is a special kind of agony with broken ribs.

Once I'm sure I've rinsed the blood and sweat off me, I get out. I have to lean against the shower door, feeling lightheaded from the exertion. Today's going to be a long day if a simple shower is this challenging.

When the dizziness passes, I dry off and squeeze out as much water from my hair as I can. There's no way I can braid my hair today or even do basic styling. I guess I'm going to rock the drowned rat look today.

Just what I wanted.

Huffing at my inane thoughts, I rush through my morning routine. I try to minimize the time I spend in front of the mirror. My one glance at my reflection shows my split lip and black eye are healed. Unfortunately, my torso can't say the same.

Shuffling to my room, I snag a couple nonstick gauze pads and medical tape. The first time I had to stitch myself up, I covered the wound with regular gauze. When I changed the bloody gauze, I had to remove multiple layers of skin to unstick it. That's one experience I have no desire to repeat. I always use the nonstick stuff now.

I quickly tape two pads on top of the three-inch gash in my side. With the gauze, I won't bleed through my uniform if I bust my stitches. I throw the whole box of gauze in my satchel. With my luck, I'll need all of it to make it through the day.

As I dress, I'm thankful for the longer skirts Malachi ordered. Combined with my knee-high socks, my skirt completely covers the black and purple bruising on my thighs and my swollen knees.

I pack my satchel and make a quick lunch before limping out the door.

By the time I make it to school, I'm covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The normally two-hour walk takes me nearly four hours in my battered state. I'm also pretty sure I tore a stitch on the way here.

"That twat waffle, douche canoe, shit taco, absolute asswipe!" I curse under my breath, calling Malachi every name I can come up with. It's his fault I'm a sweaty, bloody mess right now. If it weren't for him threatening to report me to the dean, I'd be at home, resting. Not walking six miles at a snail's pace.

I make a beeline for the Wyldhart Hall's first floor girl's bathroom. Once in the stall, I lift my shirt to look at my makeshift bandage. Sure enough, the two gauze pads are soaked through with crimson liquid. None leaked through onto my under tank, luckily.

I carefully remove the tape and gauze. The stitches in the middle of the wound are broken, frayed edges standing in a salute. Shit. I don't have a needle or thread with me. Packing the wound with gauze will have to do until I can get back home. Doubling up on nonstick pads, I quickly tape the bandage on. With only a few minutes left to get to class, I hustle as fast as my aching body will allow me.

Class and the hours following pass in a blur. Before I know it, I'm at Malachi's office five minutes before 1:30. Hearing voices, I knock on the door.

"Come in," Malachi's gravelly voice calls.

Pushing open the door, I reluctantly step into his office. I'm startled to see not just Malachi there but Sebastian and Xander, too. I immediately notice how ragged they all look.

Malachi is sitting on the coffee table with his forearms on his knees. His hands are clasped in front of him, and his head is bowed. He lifts his head as I walk into the office, dark blue eyes fixing on me.

Sebastian is sprawled in one of the chairs. His elbows are on his thighs, with the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. Lowering his hands, he also looks my way as I walk in. He's wearing a crisp white dress shirt and black slacks, instead of his usual tee and jeans.

While Xander looks the most put together, his hair looks like he's been running his hands through it nonstop. His blond hair is sticking up at odd angles, and he has dark circles under his eyes. He, too, stares at me as I walk in.

They look like they had almost as rough a night as I did. Biting my lip, I hover at the threshold of the office, unsure what to do.

"Shut the door, Briar," Malachi orders in a silky, dangerous tone.

Part of me wants to turn and run. I can feel the danger simmering in the air. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling in warning. While I know none of them will hurt me, I'm still instinctually on edge. The other part wants to do anything I can to comfort the Grimm brothers—like giving them a hug or offering to kill their enemies.

You know, normal stuff.

What has them so upset?

Malachi opens his mouth, likely to demand I do as he says. Before he can, I reach behind me and push the door closed. It softly snicks shut, but the sound echoes in the unnaturally still office. "Sit," Malachi tells me, nodding to the couch opposite him and his brothers.

Taking a fortifying breath, I try to walk normally to the sofa. I know I hobble a little, but it's the best me and my shaking muscles can do. As I walk, I try to formulate a plan to sit on the absurdly low-to-the-ground sofa. Okay, maybe it's not that low, but it's short enough that I'm going to be on the struggle bus trying to sit.

When I reach the couch, I still don't have a plan.

I guess we're doing this the old-fashioned way. Sheer determination.

Steeling myself, I slowly lower myself to the couch. By the time my ass finally touches the smooth leather, my breath is coming in short pants. Each inhale sends jagged flares of pain into my side. I try to blank my face. By the increasingly thunderous expression on Malachi's face, he isn't fooled.

"Where were you yesterday?" he demands.

Straight to the point, I see—the point I'd really like to avoid talking about. "I thought I was here to make up participation points."

"Answer the question, Briar." Malachi's tone almost dares me to make him ask again, but I'm in no shape to go toe-to-toe with him.

I sigh. "I was sick."

He tilts his head, assessing me. Malachi doesn't seem to be buying that I was sick, making me panic a little. He can't find out what really happened. "With what?" he finally asks.

My mind blanks at his question. I hadn't thought far enough ahead to prepare an excuse for him. I say the first thing that I think of. "Tuberculosis," I blurt, and I immediately want to smack myself.

Tuberculosis? Really? That was the best I could come up with?

Jesus fucking Christ.

"Tuberculosis," Malachi repeats slowly, like he can't believe I just said that. Join the club, dude. "What are the symptoms of tuberculosis?"

That's an excellent question, one I don't know the answer to. "Pain and death?"

I totally nailed it. Not.

Malachi closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, like he's praying for patience to deal with me. When he opens his eyes, they're almost black with swirling emotion. "Try again, Briar," Malachi growls. "Think very fucking carefully before lying to me again."

It's my turn to close my eyes, trying to think of a way out of this. There's no way I can tell them I was passed out from being beaten within an inch of my life. I don't particularly want Patrick to beat me that final inch and finish the job.

I'm all out of ideas.

I'm exhausted, I'm in pain, and I just want to lie in my bed and sleep. What I don't want to do is sit here being interrogated by Malachi. My only option is to leave and hope he doesn't bring it up another day. There's little chance of me outrunning Malachi in my current state, but I have to try. I don't know what else to do.

Hoping to take him by surprise, I try to move suddenly. Snapping open my eyes, I make a break for it, albeit slower than usual.

I don't get more than a few steps before I feel a warm hand gripping my throat, tugging me to a stop. A hard body steps up behind me, only a hair's breadth between us. By the woodsmoke scent, I know it's Malachi holding me.

"I only have so much patience, Briar," he snarls in my ear, warm breath caressing my cheek, "and you're wearing it very thin. Here's what's going to happen. You can either tell me the real reason you were absent yesterday, or I can walk you down to the administrative offices. You can report to someone there what happened. Those are your two choices."

Doesn't he understand? I can't tell him. I can't tell anyone.

I want to cry in frustration. Dealing with Malachi digging into my life is too much on top of everything else, but I refuse to be weak in front of him. Instead, I channel all the frustration into a snarky response. "How about option three? You go fuck yourself."

Wittiest thing I've ever said? No.

It's better than my tuberculosis line at least. I'm really moving up in the world.

Malachi doesn't budge. I try to shove him off me, pushing back on him with my hands. My weak struggles don't make a difference. In fact, struggling only makes it worse. Malachi grabs both of my arms, removing my hands from his abs. He then shackles my wrists behind my back with his free hand. His grip is firm and unyielding. Attempting to yank my wrists free from him will only injure my side more at this point.

I'm well and truly trapped.

At that realization, I sag back against him in defeat. One lone tear escapes before I can stop it.

Sometime during my struggle with Malachi, Sebastian walked in front of us. Xander also moved to lean against the door, arms crossed and a scowl on his handsome face. Even if I did manage to get free of Malachi, Xander would just stop me at the door.

"Are you hurting, Briar?" Sebastian asks gently, noting the tear that escaped.

I let out a watery chuckle.

Obviously.

But my physical pain isn't why a tear leaked out. My emotional and mental exhaustion from dealing with Patrick for the past seven years is.

When I don't say anything, Sebastian glares at his older brother. "Let her go, Kai. You're hurting her."

"Is that true, Briar?" Malachi asks, his tone carefully controlled, like he's on the edge of snapping.

I can't lie to him about this. He may be an overbearing ass at times, but I know Malachi cares. He'll beat himself up for hurting me, even inadvertently. "No," I eventually say.

"Then I'm not letting her go until she answers me. Don't interfere." Malachi's voice has a strange resonance on his last order to Sebastian.

In response, Sebastian clenches his jaw so hard I'm worried he's going to break a tooth. After closing his eyes briefly, he seems to come to a decision. Sebastian's hands go to the buttons of his shirt. He starts undoing them, while avoiding eye contact with me.

"What are you doing?" I squeak. "As much as I'd like to see the glorious muscles under your shirt, I don't think now's the time."

"Glorious, huh?" Sebastian questions, mouth tipped up in amusement.

As he speaks, his gaze connects with mine. I suck in a shocked breath. His eyes are swimming with so much pain. I haven't seen that much anguish in someone's eyes before—other than when I look in the mirror.

"Sebastian…" I trail off, not knowing what to say to make it better.

"Hush, pretty girl. Let me show you something." He shrugs off his crisp white dress shirt, letting it flutter to the floor. With one hand, he reaches behind him to take off his plain cotton undershirt.

I almost swallow my tongue when he reveals the sun-kissed expanse of his torso. He's just as in shape as Malachi, and he has the same wolf tattoo on the left side of his chest. Where Malachi is bulky, Sebastian is leaner and more cut. With hardly any body fat, the ridges and dips of Sebastian's muscular abdomen stand out starkly.

Once I get over my shock at seeing him shirtless, I notice the white lines littering his torso. Some are smooth. Others are jagged. Some are less than an inch long. Others are over half a foot in length. But all are clearly knife scars.

Someone cut him. Repeatedly.

Snapping my gaze up to his, I see his lips curved in a sad smile. Rather than answer any of the questions brimming in my eyes, he turns around.

"No," I whisper raggedly. There isn't an inch of unmarked skin on his back. Long, raised scars crisscross his entire back. Almost like… whip scars.

Oh God, someone whipped him.

I don't even realize I'm struggling to go to Sebastian until Malachi's hand tightens on my throat in warning. He leans down to whisper in my ear, "He can't handle anyone touching his back. Stop struggling, baby girl. You're going to injure yourself."

I still at that, not wanting to do anything to hurt Sebastian. After a long minute, he turns back to face me, eyes haunted.

"What happened?" I breathe before thinking my rude question through. He probably doesn't want to share. I know how much I hate people prying into my business. "Not that you have to tell me."

"I want to." Sincerity shines in Bastian's eyes. "Xander and I went to a Catholic school for sixth through most of eighth grade. Our parents wanted us to get a break from Wolves Hollow, so they sent us to a school in the town over."

He pauses, seeming to need a moment before continuing. "There was a priest there. He thought twins were unnatural and satanic. He decided Xander was the true twin, and I was the embodiment of an evil spirit. He was determined to get rid of the evil spirit by any means necessary.

"Father Simon told my parents I was a promising student. I just needed some help after class. Every school day, for three years, I spent my evenings with him. At first, he just cut me, hoping to bleed the evil out of me. When that didn't work, he moved to whips, hoping the pain would drive the evil from this plane."

After hearing his explanation, I don't ask any stupid questions, like why he didn't tell anyone or why no one noticed. I know better than anyone why someone would go to great lengths to hide abuse.

"What happened to him?" My heart breaks for the little boy Sebastian was and the man in front of me who has to bear the physical and mental scars of someone else's issues.

"I killed him," Xander growls from the door, daring me to judge him for protecting his brother. "Bastian was late for pickup one evening. My parents sent me to find him. I did find him, face down and unconscious in a pool of his own blood. Father Simon was standing over him with a bloody whip. I beat him to death with the same whip he'd almost killed my twin with."

It's clear Sebastian wasn't the only one changed by the priest's abuse, but Xander's scars are all on the inside.

"Good," I reply, satisfied Sebastian's abuser got what was coming to him, even if it wasn't nearly enough for what he did to Sebastian.

Xander's eyebrows rise at my reply. He clearly expected me to protest the violence. Little does he know, I wish I could go back in time and kill Father Simon again. Slowly. Methodically. And extract every ounce of pain possible.

"I wanted to show you my scars, so you know that I understand what you're going through," Sebastian tells me earnestly.