Page 91 of Roses in Summer

“I know. And how do you feel now?” I repeat. If she were to ask me the question, I’d tell her I’m just as angry about Mitch’s confrontation as I was last night. But it’s not about me. It’s about her.

“Frustrated, upset. Like I can’t breathe if I think about it for too long. But mostly, I’m nervous about Olivia. I have to tell her, but I-I don’t know how.”

Reaching over, I grab one of the hands she’s staring at and squeeze. “What happened to Olivia, Seraphina?”

She bites down on her lip, presumably considering how best to respond to my question or if she even should. Long minutes stretch, and I almost retract my question to tell her that I understand if she can’t or won’t talk about it, but then she opens her mouth. “Do you remember that camp I was supposed to go to? The one that’s some science camp for rich kids?”

I nod my head because how could I fucking forget? “Yeah.”

“I didn’t go. Mitch was in my past by that point. But Olivia went. It’s funny because I would have met Liv that summer instead of at school, and I wonder what she would have been like. Hurt changes you, you know? You transfer, become more guarded. I only know Olivia after, not before. The Liv I know is strong and resilient, a perfectionist, and so damn smart. It doesn’t make sense why she’s wasting away slinging drinks behind a bar instead of doing what she loves. Anyway.” She shakes her head and takes a breath. “Mitch and Chris were there that summer, and th-th-they hurt Liv. She didn’t—I don’t—that’s to say,” she stutters, clearing her throat. “They took from her that summer, hurt her beyond comprehension, and now when she seems to be open to really living life, they barge back in. I don’t care about myself, not with this. It’s Olivia who concerns me.”

I can’t help the growl that releases from my throat or the way my hand squeezes hers in a tight grip. “Let’s get one thing absolutely clear, ciern. If anyone hurts the woman I love—Mitch or some other asshole—I will show them that my knife skills aren’t just for show. Do you understand that?”

Releasing her hand, I push the blankets off my body and stand, rounding the bed until I’m right in front of Seraphina and grabbing her shoulders, forcing her to stand up. Spinning us around so that her back is to my front, I meet her eyes in the mirror on the opposite side of the bed. “This face, ciern.” I grip her jaw, squeezing lightly. “This face, this body, this heart, and your soul are important to me. So stop pretending like your safety doesn’t matter just as much as your friend’s because I won’t tolerate that shit again.”

Her eyes are wide as they meet mine in the mirror. “Love?”

35

Seraphina

I stare at him, simultaneously overwhelmed and absorbed in the words that just left his mouth.

“Love?” I repeat, positive I misheard him or imagined the word leaving his mouth.

Lincoln scoffs, rolling his eyes at my surprise. “Of course it’s love, ciern. Would I have gotten fucking roses and thorns for anyone else?” He pushes the sleeve of his Henley up, letting me see the intricate tattoos and markings that decorate his skin. He’s had tattoos covering his body since I met him, and I squint my eyes, trying to find what he’s talking about.

“What do you—? Oh my god.” I startle and reach out to twist his arm for a better look at the small vine twisting his forearm. It’s so delicate, the lines so fine, that it’s almost camouflaged on his skin. But like one of thoseHighlights“Spot the Difference” pictures, once you see it, you can’t look away.

It becomes obvious.

Glaringly so.

“Lincoln.” My voice is a whisper, just a small breath of sound that seems to hold all the confusion and wonder I feel. I look up at his face, unsurprised to find his green eyes trained on me. “When did you get this?”

He shrugs. “Wolf did it a few years ago.”

Years?

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. I shake my head, giving him the only response I seem capable of at the moment. We’ve missed out on years, and it’s sinking in that we didn’t have to.

Lincoln clears his throat. “At the time, I got the tattoo to remind me that roses have thorns. That touching them can fucking hurt like a bitch. Wolf drew blood on one of the spikes to remind me of how fucking painful it was to lose you, even if I never fully had you.”

“Oh.” I deflate, my emotions swirling from excitement to dread at his explanation.

“But then, I realized that this tattoo was just a way to keep you close, make sure I never forgetyou. Not losing you. Not watching you with some dick who couldn’t tell his ass from his elbow, but just you. I fucking tried, ciern. I tried to move on. I tried with Gemma, but it was my fault we didn’t work out because all I fucking wanted her to be was like you: sweet, determined, a pain in my ass, and the most beautiful goddamn creature I’ve ever seen.

“How the fuck am I supposed to be with someone else when every time I close my eyes, I imagine it’s your hair tickling my chest or the feeling of your hands on me? Your laughter in my ear and those little biting, sarcastic remarks you always make under your breath when everyone thinks you’re the quiet one? It’s not possible. And it’s taken me a long time, but I know that if I can’t have you—can’t be with you—then I don’t want anyone else. Because it’s a cheap imitation of happiness, and I’d rather work myself to death behind the goddamn stove than be with someone to ease my thoughts of you. I don’t know if I believe in love at first sight, if it’s bullshit or real, but what I know is that the moment I saw you in that pretty little pink dress, no one else compared.”

“You can have me.” My response is instant, with no hesitation in my voice. And really, why would there be?

“Be very fucking sure, Seraphina, because the next time I get my hands on you, they’re not leaving. Do you understand?”

I nod my head, bobbing it up and down before Lincoln stops speaking. “Y-yes.”

I anticipate Lincoln to pounce on me the moment I confirm I’m not going anywhere, that I’m his, but he doesn’t. Instead, he surveys me for long, erratic heartbeats. His eyes trail from my face to my neck, down the length of my body, and then back up. There’s no mistaking the heat in his gaze, and I suck in a breath, anticipation thrumming through me as I await his next move or word.

The words don’t come, at least not immediately, but his body starts to move, circling mine. There’s not much floor space in my bedroom, but there’s just enough room for Lincoln to move in a slow orbit around me, almost like he’s the earth and I’m the sun he revolves around.

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