Page 61 of Their Dark Rose

Sucking in a deep breath, I rethink my approach.

Throughout the years I’ve lived here, Falk hasn’t lied to me once.

Sure, he hasn’t admitted to his attraction or the innocent affection he had for me, but I don’t count that as a lie. It was a necessity. Some sort of self-preservation mechanism for this troubled man.

Other than that, he’s been honest. Painfully so.

Even now, sulking and keeping to himself, he’s honest. He’s telling me something.

“What’s changed this morning?” My indignation dulls out, and I cup his shaved cheek, twisting further to look at me.

He yields to me. His furious gaze doesn’t.

Breathe, Briar. Find compassion. Be an adult.

“Talk to me,” I plead.

“Your motherfucking father, princess,” he seethes, gripping my wrist so hard I grimace. “He just had to call this morning. And before you ask, no, he didn’t want to wish you a happy birthday. He wanted me to pass on a message to you.”

I don’t give a shit about Dad’s message. These men—as emotionless as they’ve been at times—showed up for me more than he ever had.

So, when I ask, “What message?” it’s not because I care. He disturbed my Falk. The fucker.

“As of today, you’ll own the company.” The vein in Falk’s neck throbs. “You’ll have your trust fund. So, he asked you to buy your old penthouse and furnish it in case he’s granted early parole.”

Red. The walls are red. Falk is red. The air is fucking red.

What a heartless monster. Eight years behind bars, refusing to see or call me. And this is what he had to say to me.

I understand Falk’s fury. I understand Finn slamming his hand on the table and Mason’s low growl.

I understand it perfectly fine. What I don’t understand is him.

“What does this have to do with me?” I lean across the table, my wrist twisting in Falk’s hold. “I didn’t ask him to call me. I don’t want him in my life just like he doesn’t want me in his. You know I don’t. Why are you mad at me?”

“Why? Really?” Falk closes the distance between us. We’re nose to nose, and I almost taste every emotion coursing through him. I flinch at the pain. I stand strong at the hate. “With one fucking phone call, he reminded me of how much I loathe him. Of what he and your mother had done to our family. The two people who stole our parents and to this day have not shown a shred of remorse.”

I rein in my tears. This isn’t about me. I have no right to cry.

It’s about Falk, about his visceral pain.

My soul shatters, regardless.

“He reminded me I’m falling for the woman who looks so much like her parents.”

Falling for me.

The cracks inside me begin to heal. My fingers relax around his wrist, even though he doesn’t relent.

“And what kind of man, what kind of son, does it make me?” His voice breaks at the end.

I should’ve expected this isn’t a love declaration.

He turns, tearing his hand away, and gets up, stalking out of the dining room.

“Falk, wait up.” I chase him.

He’s too fast, already grabbing his pea coat from the hanger and shrugging it on. “Mason, I’ll be outside,” he growls and disappears into the cold day outside.

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