Page 3 of Bedding Rose
“Cabinet on the right,” her voice comes out wobbly and a little froggy.
Heart thumping rapidly, I debate whether keeping this from Quique is the right thing to do I open the cabinet she’s directed me to and find a little plastic container organized with anything I could ever need for cuts. In any other house, any other moment, I’d have thought the people were just crazy-organized. Right now, though? This discovery makes my stomach sink further.
I wonder if cutting is a regular occurrence and not a one-time thing. The idea that Rosie might do this to herself often stirs up a growling shadow inside of me.
I swallow the urge to ask.
My throat dries out and this uncomfortable, hollow feeling gnaws my ribs, whittling them down from the inside out as a million questions pummel me—a million questions that I don’t speak because I know she’s in no shape to answer anything right now. She needs to be coddled and cared for the way she deserves. Held close until that emptiness pours right out of her and light can filter back in.
But despite knowing what I should do, my brain is a hodgepodge of menial questions that flash in neon light: “Why?” and “How can I make you stop?” Not helpful.
I swallow those questions as I grab some cotton balls and pour alcohol over them before moving to where Rose is sitting, sniffling and swiping at her face, inadvertently smearing the makeup that melted with her tears.
Her skirt slid down and her cut is now partially obscured, so I lean forward and glide my palm over her thigh, edging it up just a little, her legs being revealed to me inch by inch. I ignore what that might mean in another context because that is—that should be—the farthest thing from my idiotic mind right now.
“Stop.” The sensitive location of her cut is clearly not too far from Rose’s thoughts either because she blushes and ducks her head.
“Just trying to reach your cut.” I don’t apologize or take my hand away because if I do, that skirt will fall right back down. Instead, I bunch it in my fist, maybe a little tighter than I have to because of the heaviness littering the air between us—the secrets that are simultaneously drawing us together and repelling us. We've now lied to Quique together, the secret of this moment a magnetic bond that makes the hairs on my arms rise. But there is still the giant looming question: What drove her to do this?
That secret has her pulling away from me. Or attempting to.
Thing is, I’m involved now. She might think pulling away is an option, but it’s not.
My hand on her skirt holds her in place as I swipe the soaked cotton balls over the red stripe, noting that one or two other pale marks also reside on her tender thigh. Thankfully, they look faded and old. Apparently, this is a thing for Rose. Or was at some point. But whatever happened tonight brought her back to that point.
That knowledge makes me grit my teeth and I press down a little harder than I intended. Rose hisses, her hands shooting up to my arms and squeezing, nails digging hard into my skin, but her fingers are tiny—she can’t even fully wrap her hands around my forearms. I lighten my touch and her grip softens, though she doesn't release me.
When I’m done, I throw the cotton into the trash can beside the toilet and then slowly pry her right hand from my arm, which she’s pierced with her little claws. I carefully place her hand over mine on her lap so that she can hold her skirt bunched up in place.
"Keep your skirt up," I order.
She sucks in a breath, eyes growing wide.
Did I come across too harsh? I clench my jaw as I turn away. Tatiana's always complaining about how I'm so overbearing.
“I’m good now,” Rose whispers in a breathy voice. “You can go.”
“I’ll go when I know you’re good. Not when you say you’re good,” I retort as I snag the box full of supplies and glance back over. Trying not to glare down at her is a challenge because that just pissed me off.
“You’re not my keeper.” A little fire comes into her eyes and the faintest bit of color touches her cheeks as she snarks back at me.
“Maybe I should be.” The words just pop out, but I don’t retract them. I don’t even want to retract them. Quique clearly has no fucking clue what’s going on here, and he’s the man of the house now. Their mother—Ms. Dawson’s so damn obsessed with her campaign I doubt she’d notice anything short of an earthquake. No one here is going to look after Rose the way she needs. And clearly, she fucking needs it.
Yes.
I think Rosie needs a keeper.
I just nominated myself for the job.
There is a long, slow moment where we stare at each other. I think it might be a battle of wills as she struggles to figure out how to resist me.
She doesn’t know me well enough anymore to know that once I’ve made up my mind, that’s that.
Her green eyes drop first, conceding, and then she whispers, “You don’t have to do that.”
“Maybe I want to.”
Her free hand comes up to twist at her already-tangled hair, an expression of mystification crossing her face. “Why?”
