Page 123 of Rose
Say something. Stop him. Just look at me like I’m your child, not your regret.
But she didn’t move.
She met his eyes just long enough for him to see it—the guilt. The hurt. The knowing.
She knew this was wrong. She knew.
“Help me…”
The words fell from Savior’s mouth in a cracked whisper, almost too soft to hear, except they weren’t meant for the room. They were meant for her.
Tears streaked his bruised cheeks, breath catching in his throat as he curled on the floor, ribs screaming, body trembling. Saint stood with his back turned, already on the phone like the beating never happened.
Selene stood in the doorway.
Still. Frozen. Watching.
She said nothing. Did nothing. Just stared, hands limp at her sides, eyes locked on the child she gave birth to. A child who was begging, not just for help, but for love.
And she walked right past it.
This wasn’t the first time. Savior had grown used to the blood, the pain, the sharp fists that Saint called “discipline.” But the ache in his chest never dulled. And it burned worst when it came from her.
Because Selene never chose him.
She chose Saint. Always. Whatever he said was law. However he raised their son—even if it was through fists and fear—she backed it. She didn’t mother him. She let Saint mold him. Break him. Harden him.
Every now and then, when Saint wasn’t looking, she’d whisper a soft word. A fleeting touch. A weak flicker of care. But only when it was safe for her.
Never when he needed it most.
Saint ended the call and handed her the phone. No words exchanged. No second glance. She took it, turned, and walked out.
Just like that.
Left her son on the ground, blood in his mouth, heart shattering in silence. Left him pleading with his eyes for even a sliver of something warm. Something human. Something motherly.
But she gave him nothing.
And in that moment, it wasn't Saint's fists that hurt the most.
It was her absence.
Her choice to walk away instead of fight for him.
That’s when it hit him.
Love wasn’t for him. Not from her. Not from anyone.
That day haunted him like a curse he couldn’t shake. It replayed in his mind on a loop, his screams echoing, fists landing, blood dripping. And when he looked up, broken and desperate, the one person who was supposed to save him turned her back and walked away. His mother.
She saw him.
Shesawhim bleeding, crying,begging—and still, she walked out. That was the most fucked up part. Because there was guilt in her eyes. Sadness. But not enough to stay. Not enough to love him.
She knew what his father was doing. She knew it was wrong. But she let it happen. Every time. No defense. No protection. No love.
He was thirty-two now, and Savior could count on one hand the moments his mother had ever shown him softness. And Saint? That man had never shown softness adayin his life. Savior wasn’t raised to be a son, he was bred to be a soldier. Molded with fists. Hardened with silence.
