Page 5 of Queen Rose

Aria

When the sun begins to warm my eyelids, I squirm away from the light, hoping I can ignore the fact that it’s morning and fall back to sleep for just a bit longer. Once I realize it’s not going to happen, though, my eyes flicker open, and I look around for a few seconds before recognizing my surroundings. Right. I’m at the Danbrooks’ home in one of their beautifully decorated guest bedrooms. No wonder I slept so well.

My brain is fully saturated with all things Nate, from his juicy lips to his rippling abs to his toned ass. The guy is built like a Greek god, and I’d gladly spend hours examining every delicious inch of him from all angles.

Mildly frustrated, I throw the covers back and immediately yelp as the cool air in the room connects with my bare skin. I never sleep naked, yet here I am, not wearing a stitch of clothing. Nate must have worn me out because I don’t remember my eyes staying open for more than a few minutes after he left. Definitely not long enough to find my T-shirt and panties or even brush my teeth. Ew.

I ease myself out of the bed to discover I’m sore in places I didn’t know I had muscles. Crazy because you’d think that wouldn’t happen to someone who tumbles on a semi-regular basis. But no. Apparently, sex gymnastics is different.

After collecting the clothes I’d stripped out of and thrown around the room last night in my haste to be with Nate, I proceed to the bathroom. Carefully setting everything on the counter to the side of the sink, I stare at my reflection. Besides the tired, achy muscles, do I look different? I bite my lip. My eyes are definitely a little bloodshot with some unfortunate bags underneath. I poke at the puffy skin a few times, then decide there’s not much to be done. It’s all lack of sleep. Shit. And maybe a little crying. RIP to my dignity. I cringe all over again, remembering how I’d walked in on Xander and Scarlett, then subsequently had a meltdown. Last night was not the best ever in a lot of ways, most especially what had set off the entire chain of events—Conner and his unending obsession with me.

But where Nate is concerned, it was a good night. I feel close to him. Closer than I ever have to any other guy. And even if he was sort of upset that I hadn’t told him it was my first time, it wasn’t like he’d done anything I hadn’t wanted him to.

Honestly, as far as first times go, I think it was pretty perfect. The only thing I would change at all, if I could, was what I’d said afterward. I needed it to be you. Not him. Nate had noticed, and while I requested that we not make what we’d done about anyone else, I know it’s only a matter of time before he brings it up. Because who says that shit after they’ve been recently deflowered? God, I hate that word.

The answer is easy in my fucked-up world: the girl who says things like that after sex is the same one who’s been anxiously dreading turning eighteen due to Conner’s threat that hangs over her head.

I’d all but given up on finding someone I could trust my body with before Conner could take what he’s always wanted; what he’s been grooming me for for years. A swift jolt of terror makes my heart thump viciously behind my rib cage, threatening to break the bones and escape. I close my eyes. But he didn’t. He didn’t get to have me. My resolve is strengthened a million times over. He can’t have me. But what happens when Conner finds out what I’ve done? I flinch. Swallow hard. Fuck. I can’t think of it like that. I summon all the steely determination I possess. Conner doesn’t get to win.

Staring into the mirror, a slight smile twitches my lips. I’m a little scared of the ramifications of what Nate and I did where Conner is concerned, yes. But down deep, a sense of triumph steadily rises within me. I’m drunk on the feeling of being in control of my own life for once. And to be honest, I’m a little drunk on Nate, too.

I touch my fingers to my chin, where my skin is abraded and feels warm to the touch. In the reflection, it’s definitely a little red. Nate and I had practically attacked each other with our mouths, so it’s no wonder that his stubble had made my chin a little raw. That’s not the only spot that feels irritated either. There are red patches and marks all over my body. I swallow roughly, remembering how I’d demanded that he touch me everywhere. And he had. He’d worshipped me with his lips and tongue and hands. And that was all before the main event. Smoothing my fingers over the redness, I can’t stop the smile that curves my lips. I loved every minute of it. Every. Single. One.

Heat washes over my face as I fumble in the pocket of my joggers for a hair tie, images from the previous night winding their way slowly through my head. I pull my hair up, then hurry to the shower stall as fast as I can. The awkward bowlegged hobble I’m doing makes me smirk to myself. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said I’d been horseback riding last night. But no. I’d been riding Nate.

Under the spray of the warm water, I run my soapy hands all over my body, remembering every touch Nate had given me, the way we’d tangled together, straining to be closer. And when our bodies joined, and I experienced what that felt like for the very first time, it’d taken my breath away. I flush pink, thinking about how after I’d been trying to distract him. He’d gripped my hips and rubbed me over him, bare, until we both came. Holy shit, I’d loved it.

Then, he’d gotten this possessive-as-hell gleam in his eye and dragged his finger through the cum on my stomach, writing his goddamn name on me. I’d said it was weird at the time, but my God, that may have been the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.

My heart rate shoots through the roof thinking about all the ways Nate had claimed me last night. He said I’m his. I shudder, unable to come to terms with everything that entails but liking it all the same.

I’m Nate’s.

No one else’s.

Half-giddy with the thought, I dry off with one of the supersoft guest towels and then begin to tug on my clothes so I can go find everyone else before heading home.

Last night, I hadn’t noticed in my haste to get the hell away from my house—and Conner—that the joggers I’d grabbed are the old ones I lounge around in. They’re an obnoxious shade of mint green and the cheer camp T-shirt I’d worn to bed is Rosehaven’s rose-red. As I’m pulling the top over my head, it occurs to me that I’m going to have to sneak back inside my house without my parents getting a load of my mismatched outfit. Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed of it myself.

That also raises the question: why had no one commented on it last night? Not the lady at the grocery store, not any of my friends, and definitely not Nate.

The clerk was probably too tired to notice—or beyond caring, seeing as how we were there past midnight—but the more I think about it, the more I realize my people couldn’t have cared less what I’d shown up in… so long as I was okay.

And that’s a very different reaction than my parents will have. They’re likely to pitch a fit if they spot me in a so-called unacceptable outfit. My mother will go on a bender, wondering how she screwed up so badly with me. For fuck’s sake.

I blow out a hard breath. Thank God I hadn’t run into anyone else I knew last night. Farrah and all the other raging bitches at Rosehaven would love nothing better than to take me down—they’d no doubt taunt me about it at school for days and there’d be Insta posts about how visiting the wrong side of the tracks with Nate is affecting my fashion sense, or some nonsense like that. Probably an Instagram post entitled "Who Wore It Worst."

In any case, whoever sees my unique outfit this morning will just have to deal with it. And you know what? I’m fresh outta fucks. It’s the least of my worries.

With that thought, I begin to charge down the stairs, but get less than halfway when I jerk to a halt and grab the handrail to steady myself.

It’s a fact. I was a fucking mess last night. It was a side of me no one is ever allowed to see, so the idea that I’d fallen apart like that has rocked me hard. I guess I should be thankful that the ones who witnessed it are people I’ve come to trust. And I’m certain they’ve been trying to figure out the truth of what’s going on with me half the night and all morning. They’re probably discussing the particulars of the cracks that are beginning to appear in my crown.

A strangled sigh escapes me as I finally continue slowly down the stairs. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I’m so tired of being Queen Aria—Rosehaven’s spoiled, sassy-mouthed head cheerleader with the bitchy-as-hell attitude. But it’s what everyone expects from me—except, maybe I’m not giving the people waiting on me downstairs enough credit.

I can hear low murmurs and conversation in the kitchen and the sounds of utensils scraping across plates. And the sizzling of bacon frying. With my friends, I keep letting my carefully cultivated identity slip. And the further that mask falls away, the more I let them see the real me, the scarier it gets. But I also feel freer than I ever have in my entire life.

And on top of that, there’s Nate. I wonder what everyone is thinking where he’s concerned. Seemingly out of nowhere, he’s appeared and is barreling through my defenses like no one ever has before.

They all know I went upstairs with Nate last night. I think it’s pretty obvious that Nate and I have a thing, no matter how much or how little information I’ve given anyone. So, why am I freaking out? Why does it feel weird to walk into that room where they’re all eating breakfast? This group has proven over and over again, through all the trials and tribulations of the past year, that we have each other’s backs. No matter what, I have people in my corner.

Hell, were we not in a similar configuration just a few weeks ago, all of us gathered around, wondering what was going on with Griff? Sure, he had a big secret—maybe not quite so big as the burden I’m carrying, and definitely of a different variety, but everything had been okay. We’d all banded together in support of him and Max and their new relationship.

Really, our crew has rallied to support every single one of us in one way or another—including me with my anxiety attack, or whatever you want to call it. So why am I being such a little bitch about this? Why is being real with them right now so difficult for me?

Drawing myself up, I take a deep breath and blow it all back out, then march downstairs like the girl everyone expects me to be. I’ve got this. I can handle a lot more than inquisitive questions from my friends. Out of sheer habit, I put my Queen Aria mask in place to hide everything I’m used to keeping from everyone.

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