Page 29 of Braving the Storm

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 nightwas 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 hereverywhere 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.