Page 17 of They Break Beauty

Of the shadows of her past, of the trauma.

Unfortunately, that was often paired with a great deal of denial.

And barriers.

Barriers that threatened to get in my way.

I wouldn’t allow that.

In fact, I was already in the process of removing some other barriers on her end.

I shifted my weight as I watched her through her bedroom window and she finally moved from working away on her laptop.

I’d been here for almost two hours and she’d been sitting there the whole time working, shifting between coding one of her apps and then doing her coursework. Every twenty minutes on the dot, she’d reach out beside her and drink from a mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a great deal of mini-marshmallows.

She walked to her bed that was covered in hot-pink silk and lace—some hardcore Barbie shit going on, just like the rest of the space.

She snatched up her phone and as she did, I could see the screen flashing with an alarm.

Putting it down, she walked back to her laptop and shut down her work for the night, then she crossed to her dresser and pulled out a pair of little shorts and a tank.

She eased off her fluffy pink cardigan and for the first time, I was able to see a purple and blue watercolor butterfly tattoo on her left inner arm. I couldn’t make out the intricate details from this distance, but it was enough to at least discern.

I got even luckier as she turned around and I saw a black dandelion tattoo on her right upper back.

I stilled. She saw it too. She saw that she was my wildflower.

Well, she didn’t know that she was mine yet.

But she would.

Very soon.

I ground my jaw as I watched her start to strip off her gray scoop neck top too.

No.

I didn’t want to see her like that, stripped down and bared to me, not like this.

It wasn’t the way.

When that happened, she needed to be looking into my eyes, right there up close wanting it as much as I did.

This… this cheapened it.

If that was all I wanted, I could’ve used other means to get it.

Besides, I also needed her out of that apartment.

So, I pocketed my lighter, then pulled out my burner, firing off a text.

A text she would believe was from her friend, her only friend here.

Chloe: I’m ready to talk. I need to. Can you meet me tonight? My place?

The notification thankfully pulled her up short and her top didn’t come off.

Instead, she picked her phone up again, read my message, then hurriedly responded.

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