Chapter 39.
1055 Words
The drive into town with Archer was a masterclass in awkward sibling energy. Archer spent the first ten minutes whistling tunelessly, occasionally glancing at Briar with a look of profound pity.
"Seriously, Briar," he said as they pulled onto Main Street. "A lock. It’s a five-dollar investment at the hardware store. For my sake. For Mom’s sake."
"Archer, if you say one more word about it, I am jumping out of this moving vehicle," Briar snapped, though the flush on her cheeks was more about the man she’d left in her bed than the act Archer suspected.
"Fine, fine. Subject dropped," Archer laughed, pulling his truck into a spot in front of the local barber. "I’ll get the trim. You go find something to wear that says 'I’m a successful business owner' and not 'I spend my nights in a bakery.'"
He hopped out of the truck, giving her a wink that made her want to crawl under the seat, and disappeared into the shop. Briar watched the door close behind him before letting out a long, shaky breath. She smoothed down her hair, trying to scrub the "guilty pink" from her face, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Lower Falls was buzzing with pre-Gala energy. Bunting was being strung between lampposts, and the shop windows were filled with formal wear. Briar wandered aimlessly, her mind a chaotic loop of midnight blue uniforms and the sharp sting of Victor’s stubble. She felt exposed, as if the mark she’d left on the General's shoulder was somehow visible through her own clothing.
She was staring blankly at a mannequin in a boutique window when a shadow fell over her. It wasn't the frantic, high-energy presence of Archer. This shadow was heavy, cool, and carried the faint, intoxicating scent of pine and expensive soap.
"Too much lace," a low, sandpaper voice rumbled directly behind her. "It hides the lines of the target."
Briar spun around, her heart nearly vaulting over her ribs. Victor was standing there, looking devastatingly casual in a black henley that stretched over his chest, his dark hair windblown and his blue eyes sharp as flint.
"Victor!" she hissed, looking around frantically. "Archer is right there! He's just across the street!"
"Archer is currently occupied with a straight razor and a hot towel," Victor noted, his gaze tracking a slow, possessive path down her body. "And I am here to help you find the perfect dress. I told you, I don't leave my assets to chance."
He didn't wait for her permission. He placed a hand on the small of her back- his touch searing even through her coat, and guided her into the boutique. The bell chimed, and the shop girl’s eyes widened at the sight of the massive, tattooed man looming over the blonde baker.
"Find me something in silk," Victor commanded the clerk, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "Midnight blue. Or emerald. Nothing with ruffles."
Briar stood frozen as the girl scurried away. "Victor, you can't be here. This is insane."
"What's insane is letting you go to a Gala on the arm of a 'stable choice' while wearing a dress you don't feel like a queen in," he murmured, stepping into her space until her back hit a rack of evening gowns. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "I want you in something that makes every man in that room regret they aren't me. And I want it to be easy for me to take off when we get home."
The shop girl returned, trembling slightly as she held up a gown. It was a deep, liquid gold silk, floor-length with a daringly low back and a slit that reached the mid-thigh. It was elegant, expensive, and utterly lethal.
"Try it on," Victor rasped.
When Briar stepped out of the dressing room minutes later, the air in the shop seemed to vanish. The gold silk clung to her curves like a second skin, the color making her blonde hair glow and her brown eyes look like warm honey.
Victor didn't say a word. He just stared, his jaw working in that slow, rhythmic grind, his blue eyes turning to obsidian glass. He walked toward her, his heavy boots silent on the carpet, and reached out to trace the line of the low back with a calloused finger. Briar shivered, her knees threatening to buckle.
"This is the one," he said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
"Victor, it’s... it's a fortune," Briar whispered, looking at the price tag. "I can't possibly-"
"I’m not asking," he interrupted. He turned to the clerk and handed over a black titanium card before Briar could even reach for her purse.
"No, Victor, stop," Briar said, reaching for his arm. "I can't let you do this. It’s too much."
He caught her hand, pinning it against his chest. She could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt.
"I have more money than I have years left to spend it, Briar," he rumbled, his gaze intense and unyielding. "And I have exactly thirty-four days left to see you in this. Don't argue with a commanding officer on matters of logistics. I'm paying."
The clerk swiped the card with a shaky hand, the transaction approved instantly. Briar watched, stunned, as the most expensive garment she’d ever owned was tucked into a sleek garment bag.
"Ten minutes until Archer is done," Victor noted, checking his watch. He leaned in, stealing a hard, bruising kiss that tasted of victory. "Go. Hide the bag in the truck. I'll see you at the house."
Before she could protest again, he was gone, disappearing into the midday crowd as if he’d never been there at all. Briar stood in the center of the boutique, clutching the heavy silk dress to her chest, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
Caleb might have had her mother’s blessing, but Victor had her marked, her dressed, and her utterly consumed. As she walked back toward the barber shop, she realized the Gala wasn't just a dance anymore. It was a formal declaration of war.
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