Braving the Storm (Crimson Ridge #2)

Chapter 10

T here are seventy-eight planks in the ceiling above this couch. One has a sequence of dark knots in the amber-colored wood that makes it look like a dog’s face. Long snout. Eyes. The whole effect is rather surreal. Like one of those visual tricks, once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

I spent the night lying wide awake. My body tingling with forbidden temptation and sulking with shame, and generally twisted all the way the fuck up on the inside as I replayed the events from the bathroom and the bedroom.

Holy fucking shit.

One glance at my uncle’s bare chest, his expanse of tattoos… my pussy just about climbed in his lap to start grinding on him of her own volition.

Little slut.

Why he was half-naked and in the bathroom at god-knows-what-hour is a mystery for another day.

What is now going to lurk in my mind, dangerously peeking around the corner on the regular to remind me with flashes and glimpses of memory imprinted upon my brain, is how his body is so fucking hot. He’s hot. Hotter than a man who is my uncle should have the audacity to be .

It’s obvious he’s muscled, defined, broad through his chest and arms. I mean, a girl can see that without any need to strip his clothes off. But his torso is sculpted, impossibly honed off the time spent on the rodeo circuit during his professional years, and nowadays, through the back-breaking hours of labor he puts in working on ranches like Devil’s Peak.

Those indents leading into a dusting of dark hair and a v pointing straight below his belt; well, shit. I was blissfully unaware of how erotic a man’s hard-worn body could look.

Especially more so when covered in ink.

Now, I’m going to be most likely walking around in a daze, itching to run my fingers across that stretch of skin and firm muscle.

That compulsion I lay awake all night fighting is heightened and brightened up to absolutely goddamn blinding on the scale because I know exactly what the man’s back muscles feel like.

There is a snapshot in my mind of every indent, dip, and ripple falling below the slope of his neck. Everything extending from his mussed hair down has been cataloged by my fingertips. Where his shoulder blades moved, the fleshy part across the tops of his spine flexed, the indentation running the long length to the waistband of his pants.

My throat bobs a heavy swallow of guilt.

Didn’t think clearly last night before climbing on that bed and massaging him without warning, obviously.

Although… I regret nothing.

Was I also a teeny tiny bit spurred on to do what I did because I’d convinced myself he’d gone off to slide into some girl’s bed last night?

Hell yes, I was. Pettiness and horniness teamed up to make an insane decision. Before I knew what was happening, I had my hands all over him.

I don’t want to admit how much it stung when he disappeared abruptly without warning. Just when it felt like we’d settled into something comfortable, an ease flowing between us, a familiarity I’ve been craving, he upped and headed out the door.

Leaving me alone, but mostly confused and swimming in a sea of heightened emotions at the thought he had someplace better to be.

Someone he’d much rather be with.

It dredged up all my memories of nights on my own. Sorry, honey, I’ve got to work late. You know what these client deadlines are like.

When the reality was much more willing to be a convenient fuck in the meeting room.

Ugh. I want to bleach my memory of that man and his terrible dick and how pathetic I was to not see the signs. Nausea rolls through me whenever I stop and think, even for one second, how many people knew, and didn’t say anything.

How many people back there—not that I want to call that hell hole home anymore because it’s not—were laughing at me on the daily? Did they have group chats gossiping over my failure to keep a man faithful? Was the running joke how easy it was to manipulate poor, pathetic Briar Lane?

The urge to hurl up my bacon and eggs comes on strong.

I spin the handle on my coffee mug back and forth, letting it rotate on the wooden table, the coffee and creamer swirling inside as I do so.

It’s how I imagine the contents of my brain are sloshing around, encased by skull and cerebral fluid.

The man who is partially responsible for the chaos unfolding within me has taken off this morning. He huffed something at me about needing to go to Crimson Ridge to see about a job coming up, but that he wouldn’t be long.

I got the impression he didn’t want me tagging along, so I’ve sat here in the breakfast nook watching the pine trees glisten with melted ice and early morning sun.

Spring is deciding to put in an appearance, and while the night was icy, with temperatures below freezing, there isn’t any fresh snow to be seen.

I wonder what it’s like up here when it truly gets snowed in during winter. Layla mentioned that this mountain often goes through long periods, weeks at a time, up at Devil’s Peak Ranch, where the roads are closed due to heavy snowfall.

My utterly dysfunctional mind instantly conjures up a scene of being curled up in front of the fire, with nowhere to go, and nothing but a rugged, muscled man all to myself.

We’d be here all alone. Cut off from the rest of the world. There would be no way for anyone to know…

A ping comes through on my phone that makes me jump. I’d been so caught in my little forbidden fantasy, that I forgot I had connected to Wi-Fi earlier and made a brave attempt at opening my emails and messages.

I have absolutely no intention of replying to anything or anyone, but it felt somewhat cathartic to bulk delete everything with the name Antoine Montgomery in the sender’s name.

Then I blocked him, everywhere.

But this new ping is followed up by a new message tone. My heart immediately leaps into my throat as the name appears on my screen.

Crispin Lane.

No one holds a grudge longer, or could detest me more passionately, than my older sister.

Seeing that she has not only emailed, but sent a follow up message to my Instagram, makes my stomach knot. The woman never speaks to me. We’ve been strangers for years now, but that has never stopped Cris from enjoying a front-row seat to my humiliation.

I bet she knew; that bitch is a savage. I’m sure she keeps a jar of souls stashed in her office somewhere, along with her wheatgrass shots and cayenne pepper cleanses. All the people she’s screwed over, done dirty, then profited off because that’s what it takes to make it inside the Lane Empire .

Dear old dad would be so proud.

This isn’t humorous, Briar. You need to start replying to Antoine’s messages and come back. The man is worried sick.

I catch sight of the first couple of lines, knowing there will be more emotional manipulation throughout the rest of her message.

Delete.

I don’t want anything to do with them. As far as I’m concerned, that part of my life is over, and whatever new horizon I’m headed for is going to be entirely focused on what makes me happy.

No longer am I going to settle for being trodden on, or simply enduring the act of going through the motions with a fake smile, doing what is expected of me. Not carrying the burden of guilt for something I don’t have any memory of being responsible for. Not dressing perfectly and posing for the photo opportunity in order to be a dutiful Lane heiress.

Another ping, and I glance down. I already know it’ll be my sister, but while I had no issue blocking Antoine’s ass, I can’t bring myself to do the same to her contact details.

God, I really was expertly trained in the act of loyalty to her and my father. They did a stellar job there. Ten out of ten for manipulating me into feeling guilty for wanting better for myself.

Briar. You are being selfish and childish, as usual. I cannot believe this is how you choose to behave. You know it would have been her birthday next week, but thanks to you, we won’t get to celebrate it, and now with Dad gone, too…

My fingers clench so tight my nails embed themselves in my skin. Rage pours through me, and hot tears prick the backs of my eyes like a thousand tiny needles.

I delete the message without opening it.

How fucking dare she.

Always, without fail, she turns everything into a boiling vat of oil to throw over me, scalding me alive with shame for even existing.

My blood feels trapped inside my body, like I need to release the toxins somehow, like that black gunk my sister brings with her everywhere she goes seeps beneath my skin, and now I can’t breathe.

I’m on my feet, heading for the door. It feels a thousand degrees in here. Cold air. Fresh air. That’s what I need, to fill my lungs with icy mountain oxygen and do something productive. Something physical.

I’ve watched how my uncle splits us kindling wood with the ax. I know we need to restock wood regularly at the cabin.

That’s something I can do.

That’s what I need to do. Right now, I need to be away from my phone, outside these four walls.

Shoving into my boots, I grab the jacket I’ve been wearing since the first day he gave it to me and yank open the door much harder than I need to.

I want to scream into the void.

Can I do that here?

There’s no one around to hear me.

I spot the ax handle sticking upright in the large chopping base and make a beeline for it. It takes two hands and a sharp tug to get it loose, but it feels weighty and deadly in my hand.

For a moment, I pause; there are about a thousand things that could go wrong trying to split wood. Top of that list would be potentially chopping off my own damn foot if I’m not careful. Except I’m in a savage enough mood, I really don’t give a fuck.

The rage is at boiling point, and I want to slam this sharp metal head into wood and hear the satisfying thunk and splintering of fibers giving way.

So that's exactly what I do.

Setting the wood before me, I swing the ax, feeling the weight distribution and flexing my hands over the smooth grip on the handle.

Then, I let it sail down, allowing the momentum and swing and blunt force to do the damage.

The log cracks. Not giving way fully, so I tug the ax head out and repeat the process. Second time it splits with a cathartic, tearing, splintering noise.

God, that felt good. Like a tiny fraction of the emotion I’ve been carrying around and repressing constantly for years could finally fling out into the universe. That pent-up anger has transformed into something useful and split that log to be used in the fire at some future point in time.

I morph into the picture of a woman possessed. Starting small. Some of my attempts are weak, but with each blow, I let the rage eke out gradually, becoming a torrent, finally evolving into a full-on downpour. Giving my best warrior cry as I swing and land blows, all the while salty tears stream down my cheeks.

Cheater.

Liar.

Asshole.

Well, shit. Turns out you hand me an ax and some firewood to chop, and that shit is more fucking cathartic than any overpriced LA therapist.

Time disappears on me, and when I finally stop, sweat beading on my lower back and dampening my forehead, I pause to breathe heavily, and taking a look around, it’s obvious I’ve chopped far more than I originally intended to. A much bigger pile exists than we potentially needed, but oh well.

Chalk that up to feminine rage.

I wedge the ax back in the block where I found it, and gather up an armful of wood to carry around to the pile on the porch. I’ll start there and then finish up by stacking whatever we need inside afterward.

With the few chunky pieces bundled in my arms, I head for the front of the cabin, feeling incredibly self-satisfied. Down this side is still shaded, between the cabin and tall pines, and there’s a bit of a concrete pad outside what looks like a small workshop.

Just as I’m looking around, taking in the quiet beauty out here is when everything turns on me, without warning.

My boot hits the concrete and instantly gives way. With my arms full, there’s no possible way to break my fall. Both legs flip up, and I cartwheel backward.

My breath leaves my lungs in a crunching rush, a heavy blow to my spine.

The last thing I remember is the dull thud ricocheting through my brain as the back of my head collides with the ground.

The trees towering over me, peering down like curious statues, are swallowed up in a misty black void.