Page 7 of Whispers of Fire

She stands and wipes her hand on her brown apron, a bit of mud smudgin’ her cheek.

Wish I could get closer to remove it myself.

Expecting her to reply with somethin’, anythin’ that a neighbor would say, I'm met with silence. So I try again. "Nice mornin’ to garden, right?"

What the fuck am I sayin’?

I'm not used to small talk. Usually, chicks come to me at the club, and we don’t make a fuss about gettin’ to know each other. That’s the good side of never having anything serious; you don’t actually need to get involved, and that's what I need. Just enough to satisfy my hunger.

"I’m Vox. What’s your name, sweetheart?" She blinks as if caught off guard and it only makes me smile wider.

Damn, she looks like a deer caught in the car lights.

She fidgets and lowers her gaze, frowning at her hands. Her lips part before closing, and she bites down hard. Somethin’s bothering her. Her eyes meet mine briefly before she quickly grabs something on the floor behind her gardening tools.

It's a notebook.

Oh.

My angel can't speak.

I'm surprised, but I don't show it. Keeping a straight face has become second nature since I joined the Raven Sons. Hiding your emotions becomes a way to survive, not a choice. It keeps you from looking vulnerable and maintains strength and control at all times.

She scribbles something in the notebook. I wait, watching as her hand moves across the page with practiced ease, enjoying the sight of her and noticing a strand of hair falling on her cheek.

Too fuckin’ pretty.

Finally, she holds the notebook out for me to read. Her handwriting is neat, perfectly shaped letters carved by what I gather are years of strict education.

“I’m Rose,” she wrote.

I imprint her name in my mind like a tattoo etched into my flesh.

"Nice meetin’ ya, Rose," I say with a slight nod, trying to keep the conversation flowing smoothly despite the unexpected twist. She nods in return, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips. My chest tightens at the sight of her dimples.

Fuckin’ adorable.

We stay like this for an instant before the sound of steps from her house break the moment, causin’ her to step back and almost trip on her fucking long skirt. By reflex, I reach forward, looking to grab her, but she lifts her palm to me, silently asking me to not touch her.

What the fuck was this?

Her eyes, well, her eyes are full of fear and panic, a look I've seen all too often in my enemies when they realize they've crossed paths with a member of the Raven Sons. She steadies herself and pulls back as if my touch could burn her, anxiously peerin’ at the inside of the house.

She’s scared to be caught with me here.

Seeing someone fear me is usually pleasant, but right now, it ain't. I don't want her to be scared of me. The whole conservative outfit, spartan house, and Amish parents look like a mindfuck, and I'm pretty sure there's a fucking long list of things she's not allowed to do. Based on her actions, I'd wager she ain't allowed to touch a man. Hence why she refuses my help. She turns toward her house, her eyes locked with mine for a second. Big, gorgeous doll eyes, lookin’ sorry for something that ain't her fault.

“Rose, it’s okay,” I say, wanting her to know I get it. But she’s already gone.

I sit alone in the garden and try to push aside the unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Whatever it is, it's best left buried beneath the surface.

Rose

Vox.

What a strange name.

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