has been here for ten years. For ten years, she’s accepted my brusqueness without a word. For ten years, she’s watched me become more like my father every day, and she’s accepted it, no questions. I know she hates what we do here, and it begs the question why she sticks around to watch. Why she indulges my every demand. Why she watches me with a mixture of admiration and disappointment.
“What about her?” I ask, steering away from the direction of those thoughts. I’m angry enough already. “If she’s still here, I’ll throw her out myself.”
“She’s still here.” Her lips purse. “In her suite.”
A rage like no other consumes me. “It’s not her fucking suite.”
“I delivered tea to her a while ago.”
What? “Is this a hotel?” I bark, taking the stairs fast and stalking down the corridor to her suite. My suite. I can smell her, the sweetness of her scent stuck to every wall, every door, every fucking piece of me. It would be sensible of me to stop for a moment and calm down before I do something I truly regret. Unfortunately for Rose, I’ve had a bad day, and she’s just made it a whole lot fucking worse. I steam through the door and find the suite empty. The bed is made. The terrace doors are closed. My eyes fall to the bathroom. The door’s shut. The ten paces it takes me to reach it doesn’t give me the chance to cool my temper. Nothing could. I take the handle and push, meeting the resistance of the lock. With my teeth clenched, I pull back and ram my shoulder into the wood, and the door flies open, hitting the wall behind.
“I told you to get the fuck—” My scathing words die on my lips when I see her huddled in the corner, her face tear-stained, black trails of mascara painting her cheeks. She’s in the red dress she wore the night I met her, her feet bare, her purse and shoes in a pile by her side. When I find her gaze, her eyes well and overflow, and she buries her face in her knees, hiding from me.
My anger is dowsed in a second. Her shoulders jerk from her suppressed sobs, her fingers and toes curling, like she can’t make herself small enough. I approach her quietly, as if sneaking up on a wild animal, scared it’ll bolt. I drop to my haunches before her balled body and rest my palms on her shoulders. I expect her to flinch. She doesn’t. I expect her to shrug me off. She doesn’t. What she does instead is move her hands and lay them over mine, a silent message that she’s glad I’m here. And, God help me, I am too. I drop to my arse and bend my legs, spreading them and shuffling forward so I frame her body, and she crawls into me, entwining every limb around me, holding me with a force like I’ve never been held before. And she settles. And for the first time today, for the first time in my life, I feel that too. Settled. My arms hold her to me as I sit on the hard floor with her wrapped around me, and I let her be, holding back my questions until my arse starts to go numb.
I push one hand into the floor and get myself to my feet, not disturbing Rose who remains clung to my front. I take us to her bed and settle against the headboard, and she never leaves my neck the whole time.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask, drawing circles across her back with my palms, feeling her shake her head into me. “How about if I don’t give you a choice?” Another shake of her head, and I think, wondering what my next move should be. With anyone else, usually a gun to the temple will fix the problem. But not with Rose. “Tell me.” I decide to ask nicely, nudging her. “Please.” She doesn’t move, remaining quiet and still against me. I can’t deny that she feels good there. Warm, soft, and calming. But I need to know what’s wrong. She was fine when I left—resolute with my order to leave, her usual spitfire self. This isn’t the Rose I know and love.
I roll my shoulder to coax her face from my neck, looking down, my chin on my chest. “Talk to me, baby.”
I feel her take a few controlled breaths, and