Page 64 of Roses in Summer

Literally consume me.

Lincoln makes the decision and lowers my hand, taking the digit out of his mouth with an audible pop.

“You should be careful, ciern. Thorns sting.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You shouldn’t have cut your skin.”

I widen my eyes, a laugh escaping my lips at his rebuttal. I raise an eyebrow, challenging him. “You shouldn’t have surprised me. I wouldn’t have nicked my skin if you didn’t show up.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, keeping my hand hostage in his. “Why are you hiding in here?”

I swallow whatever humor bubbled up at our exchange, sobering quickly as his eyes and hand keep me in place. “I’m not hiding. I’m getting herbs.”

“You were fondling a flower when I came in here, Seraphina. I watched you for five minutes, and you didn’t even notice I walked in.”

“Oh.”

Dropping my hand, he fingers the hair lying over my shoulder, gathering the tendrils until he creates a makeshift ponytail. Pulling gently, he moves the hair off my shoulder and lets it hang down my back.

I watch as his eyes zero in on the marks he left on my neck, a reminder of the moment we shared last night.

Lowering my chin, I rip my eyes from his and bite down on my lip. “Lincoln, we shouldn’t have—”

“Sera,” he cuts me off, tugging my hair and pulling my head back. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. Now tell me why you’re hiding from me. Tell me why you changed your number four years ago. Tell me that. Tell me why.”

“Lincoln—” I start in a placating tone, only to be cut off.

“No.” He shakes his head, keeping his hand in my hair. “Give me a real answer, ciern. I know you have one.”

“Stop calling me that!” I explode, lifting my hands to push him away. He drops my hair, letting me step away from him. “Stop calling me that.” I lower my voice, dropping it into a whisper. “I’m not a thorn. I’m just a girl trying to figure out what to do next and where to go from here. You want an honest answer? Fine. Mitch knew how to manipulate me, and like a stupid, stupid girl, I allowed it to happen without a single damn protest. I let him ruin my life for six months until the force of his hand was harsher than his control, and I couldn’t let it happen anymore. And then, I found out that every sacrifice I made was pointless. That’s what happened, Lincoln.”

His face is a tempest, jaw hard and eyes narrowed at my words. “He put his hands on you? I’ll fucking kill him, Seraphina. What did he do to you?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I shake my head, deflating.

“Like hell, it doesn’t matter anymore. Sera, ciern, you fucking matter.”

“I don’t, Lincoln. Not anymore. You want to know why I ran from you last night? Because I’m scared that as soon as I’m happy, the feeling will be ripped away again. I don’t think I can go through that twice, survive the implosion a second time.”

I close my eyes, turning from him, and walk to the back of the small greenhouse to stand in front of a row of tomato plants. My heavy breathing consumes my ears, and I work to slow down the rise and fall of my chest. I almost have it under control when Lincoln’s hands cup my shoulders, drawing me back into his body.

I almost step forward to pull away, but I don’t. I stand still with labored breaths and wait to see what Lincoln will do next.

Instead of turning me around like I expect, he runs his hands over my collarbone, crosses his arms over my chest, and squeezes me. I let my eyes fall close and absorb his comfort.

His voice doesn’t break through the silence; no words or banal platitudes or offers of comfort come. The muteness is a relief, and I relish it before I have to go back into the kitchen and deal with the verbal onslaught of my family, Liv, and Ava’s friends.

Allowing myself another second in Lincoln’s arms, I take a deep breath and steel myself for the moment I step out of his embrace and have to face the aftermath of the confession I just gave.

I lift my hands and grip his tattooed forearms. “We should go back inside.”

“Yeah.” His agreement comes out on a rasp, but he makes no move to let me go.

“Lincoln,” I murmur, squeezing him in my hands.

He sighs, a deep, disappointed sound that bounces around the tiny structure. I imagine the plants weeping from his frustration as though they grow and wilt with human emotions. Lincoln’s arms drop to my hips and spin me around, placing my face at eye level with his chest.

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