Reborn: Wooing My Cold Outcast Savior

The heavy, suffocating heat of the timber woods pressed down on Gisele's chest.

She forced her heavy eyelids open. The harsh midday sun sliced through the canopy of the pine trees, stabbing directly into her pupils. A violent, throbbing pain exploded at the base of her skull. Her stomach heaved, twisting into a tight, sick knot.

She tried to push herself up. The moment her palms pressed into the damp earth, a sharp, agonizing sting shot up her right wrist. Her arm gave out. She collapsed back into the wet dirt, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

Memories that did not belong to her crashed into her brain. Images of a 1970s American small town collided violently with her modern mind. She saw a farmhouse. She saw a distribution center. She saw herself acting like a completely different person. The sheer force of the mental collision made her vision blur. She clutched her head, her fingers digging into her scalp, trying to understand why she was lying in the middle of nowhere, bleeding and broken.

A dry rustling sound stopped her breath.

It came from the dead leaves to her right. Less than three feet away.

Gisele stiffened. She turned her head, the muscles in her neck screaming in protest. Her eyes slowly focused on the source of the noise.

A black adder.

The snake was thick, its dark scales blending with the shadows of the roots. It was already coiling its body, rising from the dirt. Its forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. A low, bone-chilling hiss vibrated in the quiet woods. Its cold, vertical slits locked dead onto her face.

Gisele's heart slammed against her ribs. Adrenaline flooded her veins, making her fingertips go numb with ice. She tried to scramble backward, but her twisted ankle sent a blinding flash of pain up her leg. She couldn't stand. She couldn't run.

She dragged her body backward using only her elbows. The rough bark of a fallen log scraped the skin off her palms, mixing blood with the mud.

The adder's neck pulled back. It was the universal, terrifying posture of a strike.

Gisele squeezed her eyes shut. She threw her arms over her face, her lungs frozen, waiting for the piercing agony of the fangs.

A heavy, sickening thud split the air.

It was followed immediately by the sound of something heavy hitting the dirt.

The pain never came. Gisele's chest hitched. She cracked one eye open, her whole body trembling violently.

A rusted, heavy machete was buried deep in the mud, pinning the severed head of the adder to the ground. The headless, thick body of the snake thrashed wildly in the dirt, spraying dark drops of blood across the dead leaves.

Heavy, rhythmic footsteps crunched over the dry branches. The sound carried a massive, suffocating weight.

Gisele lowered her arms. She looked up into the glaring sunlight.

A man was walking toward her. He was tall, his shoulders impossibly broad. He wore a faded, rough canvas jacket that looked like it had survived a war. His jawline was set like carved granite. His deep-set eyes looked down at her without a single trace of warmth.

He didn't say a word.

Ernest Jenkins stopped right in front of her. He bent down, his massive hand wrapping around the wooden handle of the machete. With one brutal, effortless yank, he pulled the blade free from the earth.

He casually wiped the bloody edge against the trunk of a nearby pine tree. The motion was so smooth, so indifferent, it looked like he was just brushing dust off his sleeve.

Gisele stared at the raw, wild power radiating from him. A name slowly surfaced from the fragmented, chaotic memories swirling in her mind... Ernest. The name felt entirely foreign, yet it carried a sharp, stinging familiarity. The poor boy. The outcast of the town. The man everyone avoided.

Ernest looked down at her. His cold gaze swept over the fresh blood on her forehead and the unnatural angle of her right ankle. A faint, hard crease formed between his brows.

Still, he didn't speak. He crouched down. His large, calloused hand shot out and clamped around her upper arm.

Gisele gasped at the sudden, hard contact. His grip was entirely unforgiving. He hauled her up from the dirt in one fluid motion.

Her injured ankle gave out the second her weight shifted. She pitched forward, crashing hard into a solid chest that smelled intensely of pine needles, old tobacco, and sweat.

Ernest's body went completely rigid for a fraction of a second. But he didn't push her away. Instead, he shifted his stance. His thick arm swept under the back of her knees.

He lifted her off the ground as if she weighed nothing at all. With a rough, unceremonious heave, he tossed her over his broad shoulder.

Gisele's chest slammed against his hard back. She could feel the steady, powerful thud of his heart right through the coarse canvas of his jacket.

He started walking. Every heavy step he took sent a violent jolt through Gisele's injured head. The world began to spin in sickening circles. Nausea clawed at her throat.

She weakly grabbed the frayed collar of his jacket. Her knuckles turned white. She opened her mouth, trying to force out a simple "thank you," but her vocal cords refused to work. Only a pathetic, broken whimper escaped her lips.

The spinning trees blurred into a dark, suffocating gray. Gisele's grip on his collar went slack. Her body went entirely limp against his back as the darkness swallowed her whole.

The rhythmic thud of heavy military boots hitting the dirt pulled Gisele out of the black void.

She opened her eyes slowly. Her cheek was pressed flat against the rough, scratchy canvas of a jacket. Her nose was filled with the sharp scent of pine and the faint, bitter smell of tobacco.

She tried to lift her head. A sharp, burning ache shot down the side of her neck. A low, raspy groan slipped past her lips before she could stop it.

The footsteps beneath her halted instantly.

Ernest stood completely still on the dirt path. He didn't turn his head. He didn't ask if she was okay.

Gisele realized she was still draped over his back. The memories in her head warned her that in this conservative, tight-knit town of the 1970s, a man carrying a woman like this would start a wildfire of vicious gossip.

The silence between them was thick and suffocating. She needed to break it. She swallowed hard, her throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.

"Who..." she croaked, her voice weak and trembling. "What is your name?"

The broad muscles of Ernest's back instantly turned to stone.

A second later, a harsh, mocking scoff vibrated in his chest.

To Ernest, the question wasn't a sign of gratitude. It was the ultimate insult. It sounded exactly like the arrogant, spoiled rich girl looking down her nose at a servant, demanding to know the name of the trash that dared to touch her.

Without a single word of warning, the arm supporting her legs vanished. Ernest leaned forward.

Gisele lost her balance completely. She slid off his back and hit the ground hard.

She landed awkwardly on the grass at the base of a massive oak tree. The soft ground saved her from breaking any bones, but the sheer shock of the brutal drop made her eyes widen in absolute disbelief.

Ernest turned around. He stood over her, his tall frame blocking out the sun. His dark eyes were filled with raw, unfiltered disgust.

"We are even now, Miss Pierce," he said. His voice was like coarse sandpaper scraping against rusted metal. Cold. Final.

Gisele opened her mouth. She wanted to yell at him, to explain that she wasn't trying to insult him, that she genuinely just wanted to thank him. But her throat was too dry. No sound came out.

Ernest didn't wait for a response. He didn't care. He turned his back on her and walked away, his long strides eating up the distance as he disappeared into the thick brush of the woods.

Gisele stared at the empty space where he had just stood. A dizzying wave of confusion washed over her. Why did he save her, only to look at her with such intense hatred and drop her like garbage? The chaotic thoughts made her chest tight and her breathing shallow. But as the foreign memories continued to settle in her brain, the confusion turned into a heavy, sinking realization. She wasn't mad at him. She was mad at the original owner of this body.

She leaned her head back against the rough bark of the oak tree and closed her eyes, trying to process the mess she had just woken up in.

The loud, aggressive roar of an engine shattered the quiet of the woods.

Gisele snapped her eyes open. The sound of tires tearing through gravel grew louder. An old, beat-up but sturdy Ford pickup truck slammed on its brakes on the dirt road just a few yards away. A massive cloud of yellow dust kicked up into the air.

The driver's side door was kicked open. Arthur Pierce, her oldest brother, jumped out. His face was pale, his eyes frantically scanning the tree line.

A second later, her third brother, Donato, vaulted over the side of the truck bed. His knuckles were white as he gripped a sharp, heavy hunting knife. His eyes were wild, practically begging for a target.

Arthur spotted her leaning against the tree. "Gisele! Oh my god, we found her! We thought a bear dragged you off!" his voice cracked, echoing through the trees.

The two massive men sprinted across the grass. Arthur dropped to his knees right beside her. His large, calloused hands shook as he reached out, hovering over the dried blood on her forehead, too terrified to actually touch the wound.

Donato stood over them, his grip on the hunting knife tightening until his veins popped. He spun around, scanning the empty woods. "Who did this to you? I swear to God, Gisele, I'll kill them! I'll cut them to pieces!"

Gisele looked at the two large, rough men. Their eyes were red-rimmed. Their panic was raw and real. A sudden, intense heat bloomed in her chest. This was family. The memories told her these brothers loved her to a fault.

She weakly shook her head. She reached out and grabbed Arthur's thick, rough finger. "I fell..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "No one hurt me."

Arthur didn't ask any more questions. He slid his arms under her and lifted her from the grass. He held her against his chest as gently as if she were made of spun glass.

Donato took the lead, his hunting knife raised, his eyes darting at every shadow in the trees as he escorted them back to the truck.

Arthur carefully placed her on the wide bench seat of the passenger side. He stripped off his plaid flannel shirt and balled it up, gently placing it behind her head as a makeshift pillow.

The heavy doors slammed shut. The Ford engine roared back to life. Gisele closed her eyes as the truck bounced over the dirt road, taking her away from the woods and toward the Pierce farmhouse.

The Ford pickup crunched to a halt on the wide gravel driveway of the Pierce farm.

Arthur didn't wait. He scooped Gisele out of the cab and carried her in long, hurried strides into the two-story white wooden farmhouse.

He bypassed the living room entirely, carrying her straight up the stairs and laying her down gently on the soft, floral-patterned quilt of her own bed.

Out in the hallway, the sharp, panicked sobs of her mother, Maria Pierce, pierced the air. Arthur stepped out of the room, his large frame blocking the doorway. He pulled the heavy wooden door shut, cutting off the noise and giving Gisele the silence she desperately needed.

The room was instantly quiet. The only sound was the soft rustle of the wind blowing through the wheat fields outside her open window.

Gisele let her head sink into the feather pillow. She closed her eyes. As she turned her head, her gaze landed on a small, framed photograph on her nightstand. It was a picture of her standing next to a young man. The moment she saw his face, the memories of the past three years stopped trickling and started flooding her brain like a broken dam.

She saw the original Gisele. She saw a girl who acted like a pathetic, desperate servant, constantly trailing behind Chauncey Beck-a city boy with clean white shirts and soft hands.

She saw Chauncey looking down at her with a sickening, fake pity. She heard him reciting useless poetry while she did his chores.

Her stomach churned violently as a specific memory surfaced. She saw herself sneaking into the kitchen late at night. She saw her own hands opening the old tin biscuit box where Maria kept the emergency household cash. She saw herself stealing those crumpled bills just to buy Chauncey an expensive, leather-bound book he had casually mentioned wanting.

And Chauncey's reaction? He took the book. He didn't promise her anything. He didn't even hold her hand. He just smiled his fake smile and said, "You are too kind, Gisele."

The final memory hit her like a punch to the gut. The only reason she was in those dangerous woods today was because Chauncey had complained about the tough, rationed meat the town provided. He wanted fresh game. He wanted wild berries. And the original Gisele, like an absolute fool, had gone to the edge of the timber woods to get them for him.

Gisele's hands clenched into tight fists. Her fingernails dug painfully into her own palms. The modern woman inside her felt a wave of absolute, visceral disgust. The sheer stupidity of it made her skin crawl.

Then, the memories shifted. The scene changed to the town's distribution center from a few months ago.

The original Gisele was wearing a brand-new dress, trying to get Chauncey's attention. Ernest Jenkins had been carrying a heavy crate of supplies. He had accidentally brushed past her, leaving a small smudge of dust on the hem of her skirt.

The memory made Gisele's breath catch. She watched herself scream at him. She watched herself point a manicured finger right in Ernest's face in front of half the town.

She heard the vile words coming out of her own mouth. She mocked his torn clothes. She mocked his poverty. She brought up the political stain on his family's name, calling him "dirty scum" who didn't deserve to breathe the same air as her.

In the memory, Ernest didn't say a word. He just stood there. His massive hands were curled into fists so tight the knuckles were stark white. The veins in his thick neck bulged. But he kept his head down and took every single insult in dead silence.

The memory faded. Gisele gasped for air, her chest heaving. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead.

Now she understood. She understood the mocking scoff in the woods. She understood why he dropped her on the grass.

If someone had humiliated her like that in public, she wouldn't have thrown a machete to save them. She would have let the snake bite them.

A crushing wave of shame washed over her. It settled heavily in her chest, making it hard to breathe. She was paying the price for the original owner's sins. But she was also deeply shaken by Ernest. He hated her, yet his core morals still forced him to save her life.

She stared up at the slow, lazy rotation of the ceiling fan. The confusion in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

The old Gisele Pierce was dead. She died in the dirt of the timber woods.

The woman lying in this bed had a modern mind, a spine of steel, and zero tolerance for leeches. She was never going to let that hypocrite Chauncey suck another drop of blood from this family. She was going to use her knowledge to guide the people who loved her through the coming economic shifts.

And as for Ernest Jenkins. The cold-faced man who took her insults and still saved her life.

Gisele bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. She swore to herself right then and there. She would pay back that heavy debt. She would find a way to clear the bad blood between them, no matter how much he despised her right now.

Just as her resolve hardened, the brass doorknob turned. The wooden door was pushed open with a loud creak.

Maria Pierce rushed into the room, carrying a steaming enamel basin of water. Her eyes were swollen and red. Right behind her was John Pierce, the patriarch of the family, his face lined with deep worry and exhaustion.

Gisele took a deep breath, She looked at her parents,It was time to fight her first battle in this new life.