Page 122 of Roses in Summer

“Vixen, that’s not fucking funny.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Well, don’t. We don’t joke around about your safety, remember?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Oh, barf.” Bianca gags, pulling away from Seraphina to glare at her sister in disgust.

“It’s a joke. Calm down.” Ava rolls her eyes.

“Except I don’t think it is.” I have to agree with Bianca—it’s probably not a joke. I don’t say shit, though, taking this opportunity to pull Seraphina against my body. I breathe easier when I feel her pressed against me.

“Ser, B, you’ll stay at our house, right?”

Every instinct I have demands that I say absolutely fucking not, that Seraphina will stay in my apartment with me while they figure out when, if ever, they’re able to return to their apartment. I bite my tongue, letting her take the reins.

“Actually, I’m going to stay at Lincoln’s. Do you, uh…” She pauses, looking up at me before continuing, “Can Liv stay with you too?”

“Of course.” My answer is immediate, the relief that she wants me staggering. “Let’s get you to my apartment so you can put on clothes. Are you okay to walk? I had to park a block away. I can carry you.”

“I can walk.” Her voice is low.

Nodding at her, I look back at Grey. “You guys good?”

“Yeah, I’ve got them. I’ll call you later tonight.” Lifting my chin, I release Seraphina’s hand and drape an arm over her shoulder, pulling her into my side as she waves at her sisters and follows me to my car.

45

Seraphina

There are moments that I want to relive every day for the rest of my life. The night I met Lincoln, the day I met Olivia, or the first time Lincoln and I made love—which, yes, I know it’s cringy, but can I call it fucking if it was so much more than that?

Today is not one of those days. No, today is one of those days where I wish I had a do-over button and could restart. I’d even settle for a bout of minor amnesia to let me forget about the last three hours if I can’t wipe them away entirely.

Sitting next to Lincoln in his car is a bit surreal, not least of all because I’m wrapped in a large terry cloth bathrobe with absolutely nothing on beneath. Looking to my left, I see Lincoln’s white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel and the tense set of his jaw. I want to reach out, to ask him if he’s okay, but I don’t have the words needed.

It’s like they get lodged in my throat at the memory of the smell of smoke, the panic of my neighbors running down the stairwell, and the shoving of bodies in an effort to vacate the building. I huddle into the seat, my skin chilled against the air-conditioning blasting from the vents. Even without the cool air, my skin would be pebbled with goosebumps.

I close my eyes, blocking out Lincoln’s tense frame and the night’s events, focusing on the feel of the window against my cheek as I lean against the door. I feel a hand on my leg, a silent touch of support as I empty my mind of everything except the feeling of Lincoln’s hand on my bare thigh and the warmth he pours into my skin. Without looking, I cover his hand with mine, holding him closer against my body.

Minutes blur together as the car continues moving, and soon, we crest to a stop. I open my eyes, looking around the underground garage outside of the car window. “Is this your building?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes,” he tries again, his tone more even and less raspy. He gets out of the car and shuts his door, rounding the hood until he’s pulling my door open and leaning in to unbuckle me.

“I can do it,” I whisper, putting my hand over his to still his movements.

He bats my hands away, unlatching my seatbelt and reaching behind my shoulders and under my legs to pick me up. “I know.” He cradles me against his chest, kicking the door shut as he turns for the entrance door.

I don’t demand he put me down or insist that I can walk. It feels good to be in Lincoln’s arms, safe and comforting. I won’t deny myself this pleasure. Instead, I burrow into his chest and rest my head against his beating heart, the echoes of the pumping of his blood soothing me in a way I didn’t anticipate.

Expecting Lincoln to step into an elevator, I’m surprised when I feel his body lunge up flights of stairs, lifting me higher with each floor until he reaches for a gray door and walks us into a fluorescently lit hallway. His strides are purposeful as he winds the narrow passage to his apartment, stopping briefly to fish a key ring out of his back pocket. He inserts the key, twisting the bottom lock before moving to the deadbolt and jamming another key inside. I’m impressed by his ability to hold me in one hand while he handles the door, and while I know I should drop my legs to stand on my own at this point, I still don’t want to.

Pressing the handle on the door, it swings open, revealing a surprisingly homey space. The walls are a dark charcoal that’s so deep they gleam almost black in the recessed lighting. The open-concept kitchen and living room boast a dark-brown leather couch and coordinating barstools at the island, cream and brown throw pillows, and even a throw blanket hanging off the arm of the sofa. The kitchen is sleek—stainless steel appliances shine, and the black countertops are spotless. I look up at him, an eyebrow raised in surprise.

“What, did you think I lived in a sterile white apartment?”

I blush, slightly embarrassed that, yes, that is what I thought. “Not exactly.”

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