Page 70 of Beloved Sacrifice

Chapter Twelve

She scrubbed her skin until she no longer felt gritty and sticky, then let hot water beat against her head and shoulders. The water made her literal road rash burn, but she simply grimaced and stayed under the water. There was no soap or shampoo in the shower, so she had to settle for the hot water, and then finger-comb her wet hair when she got out. The towel was massive and fluffy, decadent after days of discomfort.

The bathroom was tiled in white marble with pale gray veins. The tiling continued halfway up the wall, and above that was wallpaper with a muted dove-gray on pearl floral pattern. The overall effect was bright, airy, and elegant.

Rose stared at herself in the mirror over the sink. Her hair was naturally straight, but without a brush it looked tousled even when wet. There were dark bruise-colored circles under her eyes. She dropped the towel and stepped back, examining her naked body.

She had a love-hate relationship with her body. Not due to her physical appearance, but because so often her body had been used against her—her female anatomy a chief reason why she’d been treated the way she had. But it was her body, the home her battered mind and soul inhabited. She was not looking her best—the days she’d slept at the cottage were like a forgotten dream, but her body showed her that they had been all too real. Her collarbones stuck out a bit more than they should, and her skin was dry—both symptoms of having not eaten much. She needed lotion, a brush, and a razor in the worst way.

When she’d first come into the bathroom she’d yanked open the top drawers of the elegant wood basin that supported the marble counter. Now she made a more thorough investigation. In the back of the under-the-sink cupboard, behind a square container of cleaning supplies, she found a small toiletry bag, apparently lost and forgotten. In it were travel bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a collapsible brush, a small zippered box of makeup, a razor, perfume, lotion, tampons, and a nail clipper.

Rose turned to the large tub and started it filling with water. Hoping the hot water would hold out, she jumped back into the shower even as the tub filled, wetted her hair, and gave it a thorough scrub with shampoo and then conditioner. She got out of the shower for the second time, combed out her hair then put it up in a towel before sliding into the steaming water of the tub. She settled back into the warm water and focused on relaxing her muscle groups one at a time, starting with her toes and working her way up. When she reached her shoulders, she had to fight to release the tension she’d stored there before moving on to her neck, and then up again to her jaw muscles.

It was a technique she’d used time and again to keep herself calm and focused. Once the relaxation portion was done, she focused on her current situation.

Marek had been right about one thing. They needed to talk. All three of them. It was time to call it and put the cards on the table. But to do that meant trusting them, both of them.

She picked up the razor and, lacking shaving cream, used a bit of lotion along with the hot water to carefully shave any of the non-abraded skin on her legs.

She’d told Marek more than she’d told anyone in a long time. In the past, there had been nights when it was all too much. When she thought she’d choke on the emotions and memories. Usually when she needed an outlet, she chose strangers, and hoped they thought she was lying. Without knowing about the Trinity Masters, her stories made less sense. In essence, the time to decide to trust Marek had passed—because she did trust him.

And Weston…

Tristan had said Weston still loved her, but then Weston had basically denied it.

And then Weston told Marek that she was grieving the man she loved. Maybe she’d been wrong to think Weston was different than his brother. If what had been between Caden and herself was what Weston thought of as love, then he’d ended up just as screwed up as Caden had been.

Out of habit, she shaved her whole leg, right up to the hip, and then carefully removed all the hair from her sex, arching her hips out of the water to do it.

Losing the image of Weston as the boy who’d loved her, really loved her, not wanted to own or control her, was a terrible blow. When she’d felt like nothing more than an object, a pawn, she’d reminded herself that Weston had loved her.

It was her grandmother—her mother’s mother—who had taught her what love was. Grammy hadn’t known anything about the Trinity Masters, so when Rose’s mother had come home pregnant, and then said only that the father was named John Hancock and wouldn’t be involved in Rose’s life, Grammy had stepped in.

Those first years had been wonderful. Grammy’s house was small, the outside yellow, and almost all of the rooms inside painted a shade of blue. Grammy had helped Rose paint her room a sky-blue color above the chair rail, and grass green below. Then they’d spent many idle hours drawing or painting birds and flowers and clouds and sticking them to the walls with the museum putty her mother seemed to always leave lying around during her infrequent visits. Grammy had been religious—not terribly devout, but rather committed to being a good person. She’d done Christianity right, focusing on the parts of the religion that preached tolerance and kindness. Sitting cross-legged in front of her grandmother’s chair, eyes closed as she got her hair brushed, Rose listened to her grandmother repeat what Rose had thought was a poem her grandmother made up, but had in fact been snippets of 1 Corinthians interspersed with her own wisdom.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love is hard work. Love is accepting people for who they are, my sweet Rose.”

That love, love the way her grandmother had described, was not what she’d had with Caden. That kind of love wasn’t something she’d ever have now. Grammy had loved her. Without Grammy, Rose wouldn’t have even the faintest idea what love was.

In her darkest moments, she’d reassured herself that if Weston had lived, he would have loved her like that. Reassured herself that she did deserve to be loved that way.

But that wasn’t true, and maybe that was why she felt so lost right now. Caden was gone, Tabby was safe.

Weston was alive, and hadn’t loved her enough to come back for her.

The water was cold. Rose stood and drained the bath, then toweled off yet again. She propped her leg on the counter and smoothed lotion from knee to toes on the unhurt skin. Her ribs ached, but it was a dull feeling. Tucking the towel around herself, Rose lifted her chin, mentally gathering her defenses, and went in search of clothes and the men.

Twelve years of work, and in the final days it had all gone to shit. Weston stared at the fire Marek was methodically and expertly lighting. There was food spread out on the coffee table—brought up by Marek—and a cup of tea in his hand—placed there by Marek.

Both the food and tea were untouched, but the warm mug felt nice.

Tabby was safe—he couldn’t let himself forget that. As fucked up as the last few weeks had been, that was the one unambiguously good thing that had happened. After all, of any of them, Tabby was the one with the least choice.

That thought made him wince. Addressing the issue of Tabby’s lack of choice implied that Caden and Rose had made choices that had led to the events of the past weeks—which they had. By extension, that could lead to the implication that it was their choices, and not the machinations of his parents, that had led to Caden’s death.

Maybe that was true on some level, but Weston intended to lay the blame for all of it at the feet of his parents and the other purists.

To do that, he needed proof, and there was no way he was going to get that while Tristan kept him under observation here. Damn it, he needed to get to Dorset. He hung his head and stared at the tea.

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