Page 89 of Braving the Valley

"Are we going to do this, or are we going to just stand here holding each other's dicks?" Kill quips.

"No one invited you, motherfucker," I snap.

"Moral support," he mutters with a shrug.

I roll my eyes. "Like you have morals."

Technically, I didn't invite any of them.

Willow's here as moral support for Avery since, apparently, they're friends now or something.

Saint's here for his girl.

And Kill tagged along because, as he put it, he wanted to see what's up.

I should tell them to all fuck off, but at this rate, Avery is never going to let me brand her, and it's all I can think about.

Day and night, in my dreams and wide awake, when I'm igniting the lighter and when I want to ignite even more, I imagine it.

Pink, sizzling flesh.

The stench of seared meat and smoke.

Her branded for me.

I've already tried to convince her twice. The first time, she laughed until she nearly pissed herself. Then when she realized I was serious, she sank to her knees and begged for the flash paper instead. The second time, she told me she needed time to think about it and that she wasn't sure.

Pfft. She's had more than enough time to consider it.

It's a miracle worthy of notification to the fucking Vatican that I haven't tied her up and just gotten it over with already. It's no fun, though, if she doesn't enjoy it with me. So if my girl needs Willow here as moral support and these two idiots have to tag along, so be it. I'll kick them out when it's over, and then it will just me and her and the proof that she's mine etched into her skin.

I kneel, rolling the poker in the flames again. It's thin and tapered at the tip. This time when I grab it, I can barely hold the thing. The end glows orange, matching the burning embers.

Aisling died in this very spot.

Avery will be marked here as mine.

And every time she looks down at her forearm, she'll know I am hers as well.

I look up at her, grabbing the cloth and wrapping it around the end of the poker, making it so I can hold it long enough for the brand.

"You ready, baby girl?" I ask her. She looks down at me, her blue eyes bright beneath the flames, and nods. She looks at Willow and then back to me as I stand, rolling up my sleeve.

"What are you doing?" she blurts, staring at me.

"Me first."

"What?" she swallows.

I reach down, pick up the iron, and hand the wrapped end to her.

"X marks the spot, baby girl," I tell her.

She's shaking and shivering, her gaze darting between the glowing end of the poker and my forearm.

Poker. Arm.

Poker. Arm.

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