The General

Chapter 13.

​The silence of the Smith house after a long day of work was usually a sanctuary, but tonight, it felt heavy- thick with the lingering adrenaline of the bakery confrontation and the quiet revelations of the morning run. The hum of the shower had been the only thing grounding Briar, the hot water washing away the literal flour and the metaphorical grit of Travis’s presence.

​She stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around her like a ghostly veil. She had a single, small white towel tucked tightly above her breasts, barely reaching mid-thigh. Her skin was flushed pink from the heat, and her blonde hair was a heavy, sodden weight down her back, sending stray droplets of water trekking down the curve of her spine.

​She turned to head toward her bedroom, but her breath hitched.

​Victor was at the top of the stairs.

​He had been moving with his usual silent, predatory grace, likely heading to Archer’s childhood room to retrieve something. He stopped mid-stride. The hallway was narrow, the lighting dim and amber, and for a heartbeat, time simply ceased to function.

​Briar froze, her hand instinctively clutching the knot of the towel. She watched his eyes- those frozen steel-blue depths, slowly darken. His gaze didn't wander with the clumsy, entitled hunger of a man like Travis. Instead, it moved with a devastating, clinical slowness. He took her in: the damp hair, the water droplets clinging to the slope of her collarbone, the way the moisture disappeared beneath the white towel only to reappear on the long, smooth line of her bare legs.

​The air between them turned electric, vibrating with a tension that made the previous night’s fudge-making feel like child's play. Victor’s jaw tightened, the muscles working under his skin as he visibly fought to maintain the discipline that had defined his life for twelve years.

​He was the first to break. He snapped his gaze toward the far wall, his throat moving in a hard swallow.

​"Excuse me," he rumbled.

​His voice was lower than usual, a gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards beneath Briar’s feet. He stepped past her, pressing his back against the wall to ensure there was no physical contact, maintaining an invisible boundary that felt as impenetrable as a glass wall.

​Briar didn't move until she heard the click of Archer’s bedroom door. She released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

​"Get it together, Briar," she whispered to herself, ducking into her room.

​Twenty minutes later, the woman who had been dripping and vulnerable was gone. In her place was a version of Briar that felt like a sharpened blade. She wore a light pink slip dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, paired with black heels that added three inches to her height and a dangerous edge to her stride. She swiped a layer of dark cherry gloss over her lips, grabbed her clutch, and stepped out into the hallway.

​She didn't make it three steps before Archer appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking up with a surprised whistle.

​"Whoa. Where are you going looking like you’re about to start a small war?" Archer asked, leaning against the banister.

​"The bar," Briar said, her heels clicking rhythmically on the wood as she descended. "It’s been a day, Arch. A long, exhausting, Travis-filled day. I want a drink. Maybe five. Is that okay with you? 'Father'?"

​She gave him a playful, mocking tilt of her head, her sass returning in full force.

​Archer’s grin widened, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Okay with me? Bri, it’s more than okay. I’m coming with you. I haven't had a proper civilian beer in a year."

​The door to the guest room opened, and Victor stepped out. He had changed into a clean, dark charcoal button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the thorns on his forearms. He stopped at the top of the landing, his presence immediately commanding the space.

​"Do you want to come with us, Sir?" Archer asked, looking up. "Briar’s on a mission to forget the afternoon, and I’m her designated enabler."

​Victor didn't answer immediately. His eyes swept over Briar’s attire- the way the pink silk shimmered under the hallway lights, the height of her heels, the defiant set of her shoulders. For a second, that flicker of the man behind the General returned, intense and unyielding.

​"I’ll go," Victor said, a light nod accompanying the words. "Security detail."

​"Sweet!" Archer chirped, already tapping away at his phone. "I’ll bring Mallory. The hospital has been killing her these last few days; she needs a break and a stiff drink. She’s already on her way over."

​Lower Falls Pub was the kind of local dive that felt like a collective living room for the town. It was dim, smelled of beer and old wood, and featured a jukebox that hadn't been updated since 2005.

​The Lower Falls Pub was a dim, wood-paneled dive that managed to be both rowdy and strangely intimate. Neon signs cast a hazy red glow over the small dance floor, where the music was just loud enough to make conversation a private affair.

​As they stepped inside, the tension from the dinner flashback still simmered in the back of Briar’s mind. Mallory didn't miss a beat; she hooked her arm through Archer’s, her eyes gleaming with a predatory sort of playfulness.

​"Drinks first, Arch! Then you’re taking me out there," Mallory said, nodding toward the crowded floor. She spared a sugary, pointed look at Briar. "Try to loosen up, Bri. Not everyone is out to get you."

​Before Briar could sharpen a retort, Archer was being pulled toward the bar. Briar turned toward the back of the pub, her heels clicking defiantly. Victor followed, his presence a silent, heavy shadow that seemed to part the crowd like a tide.

​They found a booth in a dark corner, the leather cracked and smelling of old smoke. Briar didn't hesitate. She caught a waitress’s eye and placed an order that made even the seasoned server blink: a dozen tequila shots and a tall, stiff vodka-cranberry.

​"A dozen?" Victor rumbled as the tray arrived, the glass rims glistening with salt. He sat across from her, his massive frame making the booth feel like a cage.

​"I have a lot of things to forget, General," Briar said, her voice sweet but laced with iron. She slid a glass of bourbon toward him- something she’d ordered without asking. "And you’re going to have at least two. For security purposes."

​Victor looked at the amber liquid, then at her. He didn't argue. He picked up the glass with a steady hand. "Two. No more."

​Briar didn't wait for a toast. She knocked back the first shot, the burn of the tequila hitting her throat with a welcome sting. Then the second. By the third, she felt the edges of the room start to soften. She noticed Victor watching her, his icy blue eyes fixed on her face, tracking the way she winced slightly at the salt.

​"It’s been a long day and I'm getting drunk," Briar said flatly, meeting his gaze before downing her fourth shot in one fluid motion.

​"Efficiently," Victor noted, his voice low. "Usually a trait I admire. In this context, it’s a hazard."

​"I'm a big girl, Victor. I know my limits," she replied, her sass bubbling up through the haze. "I just don't particularly care about them tonight."

​Before Victor could respond, a man appeared at the edge of their booth. He was handsome in a polished, suburban way- button-down shirt, expensive watch, a practiced smile.

​"Briar?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

​Briar blinked, her head tilting to the side. "That's me."

​"Mallory texted me. Told me you wouldn't mind company?"

​The name Mallory acted like a bucket of ice water. Briar’s posture straightened instantly, her eyes narrowing. She knew exactly what Mallory was doing- trying to "fix" Briar by setting her up with someone who fit Mallory's world of "flexibility."

​"Depends on the company," Briar said, her voice dropping into that dangerous, thin territory. She crossed her arms over her pink dress. "Because I’m not jumping into bed with you, no matter how drunk I get."

​The man looked taken aback, his cheeks flushing. "That’s fine. I just... can I?" He gestured to the empty spot next to her.

​Briar glanced at Victor. His expression was a mask of granite, but the air around him had turned cold enough to frost the glass. He didn't move an inch to make room, so Briar had to scoot closer to him- her silk-clad thigh pressing against the rough denim of his leg- to give the stranger space.

​"Sure, I guess," Briar murmured.

​The man sat down, clearly sensing the lethal aura emanating from the silent General across from him. "I’m assuming Mallory didn't mention this at all, did she?"

​"Not a word," Briar said, reaching for her fifth shot. She downed it and chased it with a sip of her mixed drink.

​"Of course she didn't," the man sighed. "If it's any consolation, she did say we would be perfect together. Said you needed someone who understood how the world actually works."

​Briar’s hand tightened around her glass. She could hear Mallory’s voice in her head: Maybe if you were a bit more understanding...

​"No offense to you or her," Briar said, her tone humble but sharp as a razor, "but I'm not taking relationship advice from her. Sure, she makes my brother happy, but that’s them. Not me."

​She didn't elaborate. She wouldn't betray Archer’s secrets to a stranger, but the disgust she felt for Mallory’s "realism" was plain on her face.

​The man nodded slowly, glancing at Victor, who was currently looking at the stranger as if he were a target that had lived past its expiration date.

"I understand. I get it. But regardless, if you want to give me a chance later... here’s my number." He slid a piece of paper across the table. "Have a goodnight, Briar."

​He stood up and beat a hasty retreat, disappearing into the crowd near the dance floor.

​Briar exhaled a long, shaky breath and leaned back. The movement caused her shoulder to rest against Victor’s arm. She didn't pull away; the heat of him was the only thing keeping her grounded as the alcohol swirled in her system. She stared up at the water-stained ceiling tiles.

​"He could've been a loyal one," Victor said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through her shoulder.

​"Maybe," Briar replied softly, her sass fading into a tired honesty. "But if he’s friends with Mallory, I don't think I could trust it." She shrugged, the silk of her dress shifting against his sleeve. "Besides, I'm here to get drunk. Not get hit on by strangers."

​Victor finally reached for the paper the man had left behind. He didn't read it. He simply crumpled it into a small, tight ball in his fist and set it aside.

​"Good," Victor rumbled.

​"Good?" Briar asked, turning her head to look at him. Her blonde hair brushed his shoulder. "Why is that good, General? Do you have a problem with my 'company'?"

​Victor didn't look away. The stoic mask was there, but behind it, the blue of his eyes was burning. "I prefer the company you keep when you aren't listening to Mallory."

​Briar felt a flush that had nothing to do with the tequila. She reached for her sixth shot, but Victor’s hand- huge, calloused, and steady; landed over hers, stopping her.

​"Slow and steady, Briar," he reminded her, his voice dropping to that gravelly whisper they’d shared over the stove. "You said you didn't do mistakes. Don't start tonight."

​Briar looked at his hand over hers, then up at his face. "I'm not a mistake, Victor."

​"No," he said, his thumb grazing the back of her hand. "You're the standard. Act like it."

​She let go of the glass, her heart hammering harder than it had all day. Mallory and Archer were lost in their own "flexible" world on the dance floor, but here in the dark, Briar felt like she was finally standing on solid ground.