Page 23 of Root

The scent’s clean, like sun-drenched grapefruit and the zesty herbaceous lift of verbena with a hint of floral and soft spice.

And roses.

I go still.

I’m not alone.

“You can open your eyes, I know you’re awake,” says the kind of voice that’s sweet over steel, innocence enhanced by violence. “The drugs wore off about an hour ago. We had to keep you in an induced…sleep because you kept ripping your stitches.”

I open my eyes and turn slowly. She’s gorgeous.

The big dark eyes, perfect skin, red lips and long dark hair in waves.

Rosalind, that’s her name.

Nikolai Wilder’s wife.

The biggest bad around.

He owns Queenstown.

Things snap to attention inside me. The bar, the fight, me shoving my nose where it doesn’t belong and where—the hot slice of pain.

That fuck Chris must’ve nicked an artery, or something. I drag in a breath. “I don’t remember much.” Like getting here.

“I’m Rose,” she says.

“Jess—” I stop. Of course she knows that. “What happened?”

“Apparently it was a bar fight,” she says.

I wince as my side seems to catch and pull. “Bad?”

“You’ll live. Gave Rush a scare.”

Rush.

The name moves through me, cool water over blistering skin. Soothing, somehow, when it shouldn’t be anything at all.

He’s just a guy. A flirt on legs with a dick. Rich. Someone who needed a fucking girl to save him.

My thoughts twist.

No, he isn’t that. He might be prime fuck boy material and unable to keep his dick where it belongs, in his pants—I know fuck boys when I see them—but he’s not weak. I saw that. He fought. And—events rush me, spinning me off my feet. Which is quite the fucking feat considering I’m flat on my back.

“Yeah, he can take care of himself.” I try to sit up. I know I can do it, but it’s going to hurt.

I’m no stranger to pain.

A soft hand touches my shoulder. “You need to rest. Here.”

And like fucking Nightingale herself, Rose who smells like a rose hands me two tablets and water with a metal straw in a gorgeous hand-painted glass.

Oh Jesus. I don’t know what to do with chicks like her. She’s everything I’m not. Probably the root cause of Rush’s need to conquer beauties everywhere. Like that rich girl who was so wrong for him. I wince, shifting my thoughts from things such as blond Rush fucking females all over place.

Why my head’s on sex is beyond me. I don’t know what drives him to flirt like it’s air, and, hazarding an educated guess, fuck any female like it’s his job. The fact he doesn’t have this ex-beauty queen?

Or maybe he’s just fucking good at sex.

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