Page 24 of Their Dark Rose

The whiplash he gave me hurt my head and heart. But I couldn’t stay in bed, sulking. Couldn’t even ask what the hell happened down there and if I’d been right about the men’s feelings for me.

I couldn’t do any of it.

Falk’s harsh demand to “Come here” broached no argument, and I went to him. Like always.

So, here we are now. One heartbreak and a few hours of class later.

“Let me see the poem you wrote.” He bows his chin, his green eyes demanding.

“I’m tired, Falk.” I fake the mother of all yawns. I’m wide awake, but this is one intimate poem I regret ever putting on paper. “Can we call it a day?”

He raises a thick, black eyebrow. His high cheekbones move as he grinds his teeth.

I yawn again, obnoxious and over the top. I have to sell it. Have to.

There’s no backup plan. No other poem I wrote for our creative writing class.

Give me a break just this once, please.

“We had our lunch break less than three hours ago.” He waves his phone at me, showing me it’s four in the afternoon. “You should have at least another hour in you.”

“Please.” I’m not above begging. “Please, Falk. I’m exhausted. We’ve been at it for hours. I’ll do anything.”

“You were the one who asked for this class.” Falk places his phone on the desk, returning his inquisitive gaze to me. “Why was that?”

“I wanted to learn more than just the other basic classes.”

This answer is a blatant lie.

The truth goes far deeper than this basic, surface level.

I’m clueless as to how to express myself.

This summer, when I asked to add the class to the curriculum, I had one intention in mind—learning how to write what was weighing on my heart.

Somehow, someday down the road, I’d been meaning to tell these men what I felt.

What I’ll forever feel for them.

My mouth is capable of cussing and spewing profanities. My dirty mind runs wild on a daily basis, conjuring any type of scenario with them in it.

What I’m stuck on is how to expose my vulnerabilities to these men.

How instead of taunting Falk, I’d express how his outbursts are freaking hot.

How to beg Finn to smile at me when his brothers are watching, too.

To confess to Mason that knowing him is the best thing my dad has ever done for me.

I’m stuck because they’ll reject me. Because when the time comes to say these words, I know I’ll fuck up and say them all wrong.

Much like this poem I wrote.

“You have your answer, then,” he concludes, his voice clipped, impatient, and snapping me out of my haze. “We’re seeing this through. Hand over the poem, and we’ll discuss it.”

We have a stare-off that lasts an eternity. When not a muscle on his face budges from the puppy eyes I give him, I consider another tactic.

We’re sitting close to one another. He was hard for me this morning, and I definitely want him.

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