Page 120 of Held-
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, the tightness in my chest finally loosens. I close my eyes, letting that sound wash over me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, peace isn’t something fragile or temporary.
It feels real.
And it’s ours.
BRAYDEN
I'm prettysure Jesus didn’t get his ass kicked by a tire iron before his first Christmas, but here I am, limping up the church steps, a battered, budget-version messiah. Every breath sends a stab through my ribs, and the bruises on my face have settled into a sickly yellow-green pattern that makes me look diseased. Merry fucking Christmas to me.
“You’re scowling again,” Cece whispers, her arm threaded through mine as we approach the entrance. She’s in a red dress that fits her so damn well it should be illegal, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Even with my face stillresembling abstract art, I’m the luckiest bastard here just having her beside me.
“I’m not scowling. This is just my face now, courtesy of your ex.”
She flinches, and regret hits me hard. “Sorry, princess. Shitty joke.”
“It’s okay.” Her fingers tighten on my arm. “I’m just glad you’re here. And walking. And not, you know, in a ditch somewhere.”
“Takes more than a spoiled rich boy with daddy issues to put me down.” I tug at the collar of my shirt, which feels more restrictive with every step. It’s the closest thing to church-appropriate clothing I own—hastily bought yesterday when Cece reminded me about her father’s Christmas Eve service. Black button-down, dark jeans. This is the peak of my formal wardrobe.
A tie, though? No chance. Even love has its limits.
“Are you sure you're up for this?” Cece asks for the third time since we left the guesthouse. “We can still turn around. Dad would understand.”
“And miss my chance to see Wrecker play Joseph in the nativity? Not a chance.” The mental image of my tattooed brother in a biblical costume has been the only thing getting me through this whole church service idea. “Besides, your father invited me personally. Pretty sure that's one of the signs of the apocalypse.”
She laughs, and the sound washes over me—steady, warm, easing something tight inside my chest. A week after Ethan’s attack and her laughter comes easier now. The shadows that once lived behind her eyes are finally thinning, replaced by something calmer. Something close to peace. It suits her more than anything she’s ever worn.
“Dad’s been full of surprises lately,” she admits as we reach the church doors.
“Do you mean him stopping by every day to check on me, treating me as if I somehow ended up on his pastoral roster?” I ask, still half-convinced I hallucinated it. The reverend had shown up daily, awkward as hell, Bible tucked under his arm, making stiff commentary about the weather. The whole thing had been painful in more ways than my ribs, but I can’t deny I respect the effort. “Or the church ladies bringing us meals every day?”
Inside, the church is packed to capacity, every pew filled with families in their Christmas best. There’s even a tree near the altar, decked in gold and white ornaments, and enough twinkling lights to make me squint. The air smells of pine, candle wax, and something spicy—cinnamon, maybe.
“Cecelia!” Mrs. Holloway calls, “We saved you seats!”
Cece waves back, tugging me gently toward the front of the church. I hesitate, feeling exposed. Being up front means the entire congregation can stare at my bruised face and judge the tattooed biker who is corrupting their preacher's daughter.
“Front row?” I mutter. “Seriously?”
“Dad wants us up front,” she whispers. “It's a big deal, Brayden.”
The significance isn't lost on me. This is the Reverend's way of publicly declaring his support for Cece, for us. It's a statement to his entire congregation. I can't fuck this up.
“Fine,” I sigh, straightening my shoulders despite the protest from my ribs. “But if someone tries to make me sing, I'm out.”
The Reverend steps up to the pulpit, adjusting his glasses as the murmurs settle into expectant silence. His eyes sweep the congregation with the authority of a man who has spent his entire life commanding a room without raising his voice. Butwhen his gaze lands on Cece and me again, I swear something gentler flickers there—quick, but real.
He clears his throat, the microphone crackling softly.“Welcome, everyone, to our Christmas Eve service.”
A few pews back, I hear Mrs. Whitaker inhale sharply, as if preparing to take offense at anything that comes out of his mouth.
Cece squeezes my hand once. My ribs scream, but the warmth in my chest drowns it out.
“Tonight, before we get to our normal festivities,” the Reverend continues, “I want to talk about the unexpected ways grace finds us.”
A ripple of whispered interpretation moves through the sanctuary. Because this is a small town, and everyone here knows exactly who he’s talking about. Hell, even the nativity figurines probably know.
He goes on, voice steady, eyes locked on the back wall but clearly aimed at every gossip in the room. “Sometimes grace shows up in forms we don’t anticipate. Sometimes it looks…different from what we pictured. And sometimes we must learn that the measure of a man is not where he came from, but what he chooses to stand for.”