Page 3 of Roses in Summer

“Fine, ciern. Ask me your question.”

“Churn? What does that mean?”

A dark brow rises. “Is that your question?”

I glare at him but nod.

“Not churn, ciern. It’s Polish,” he supplies, running a hand down his face. “It means thorn.”

“Why are you calling me a thorn?” I shake my head, trying to make sense of the term. The look he sends me forces a quiet groan sound from the back of my throat.

The look he sends me has a quiet groan sound from the back of my throat. “Fine, ask your damn question.”

“Did you love him?”

Biting down on my cheek, I consider his words. Did I ever love Mitch? It’s not as easy as yes or no; there’s so much nuance to the seemingly simple question. “I loved the idea of him. I loved how I felt in the beginning, the thrill of being someone’s person. I even loved being known as Mitch’s girlfriend instead of Ava, Rafe, or Bianca’s sister. It was like a new identity,” I swallow the bile slowly rising up my throat.

“But, the more comfortable I got around him, the more controlling he became. First, it was my hair- I wasn’t allowed to cut it. Then it was that I needed to stay a virgin until we got married because he comes from a family of politicians, as though a wedding was something on my radar at eighteen. There were more and more rules, more expectations, and it became stifling.”

Lincoln’s face turns to granite, his body stills on the chair he’s perched on. I’m not sure which part shocked him the most, but it’s easy to see that something I said unnerved him.

“Why did you stay with him?”

I don’t bother chastising him for asking a question out of turn; I give in to my need to talk about Mitch with someone other than my sisters and Rafe, someone who doesn’t know me, doesn’t expect anything from me. “I guess part of me loved him, or at least that I was wanted.”

“You’re never getting back with him.” Lincoln states, a demand he has no right to make, but warms me all the same.

“Okay, Dad.”

“If I were your father, I’d ground you from leaving the house for dating him in the first place.”

“Drama king,” I tease, rolling my eyes at his over-protective response. “I already have a daddy and a brother; I don’t need another of either.”

He chokes on a laugh. “I don’t want to be your fucking brother.”

Silence descends, uncomfortable in its thickness. There’s a tension present, one that’s sexual and heavy, tangible, yet completely out of my grasp.

Clearing my throat, I attempt to diffuse the pressure pushing down on the room. “So, tell me about the tattoos.”

Staring at me, he works his jaw, remaining quiet for a stretch so long, it seems like he’ll never answer the question. “You’ll have to be more specific; I’m covered in them.”

“Right, right. But uh,” I clear my throat again. “Why?”

“I thought I’d lose modeling contracts if I got them.”

“And did you?” I can’t help but ask.

He shakes his head, the intensity in his gaze never wavering. “You ready for your next question, ciern?”

“Yes,” my voice squeaks, sounding pathetic to my ears.

“Has Mitch ever kissed you properly?”

My mouth pops open, “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Has he kissed you? And I’m not talking a shitty excuse of lips mashed together; I mean, has he has he given you a proper kiss?”

“Wh-what—?” I stutter, shaking my head in an attempt to understand his words.

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