Page 74 of My Rose

But a jacket and a life were two very different things. And I had just decided to walk away with mine as another possibly hung in the balance.

The second I got in, the door closed, and I was stuck watching through the window as August turned around with the gun still pointed at him, the tip now digging into his forehead. I could hear them talking but not enough to decipher exactly what was being said. With bated breath, I watched as August’s hands trembled at his sides, his eyes wide in terror or shock at being caught. It was hard to tell because I guess I never truly knew him. The friend I thought I knew wouldn’t have left bruises along my arm.

Suddenly, their voices stopped, and August jumped back. Briggs turned and casually tucked his gun into the back of his waistband, and then he reached into his pocket. The sounds of his driver-side door opening eased me back into my seat. I pressed my face into my palms, my breathing finally evening out as Briggs entered the car.

It’s over.I’m safe.

I raised my head as the car shifted, and I saw a completely unharmed August Coleman jumping back as the front of Briggs’ car almost clipped his legs, sending him to his ass in the snow, a large and undeniable wet stain covering the front of his jeans. Weeks ago, I would have wanted to protect August from Briggs’ aggression. But seeing no red on the ground and hearing no bullet leaving thegun—I just wanted to forget all of that had just happened. My once best friend had been so close to doing things to me that would have sent me right back to therapy.

I angled myself on the seat to face Briggs, my mind a whirlwind of the things I wanted to say and ask, but the first thing that came out was, “Where have you been?” Like I hadn’t been ignoring him, too. I immediately silently scorned myself. I was a grown woman, and I should have been able to talk to him about what his father said they did like civil adults who had a relationship of some kind, whatever that was now. But that day was like a harsh slap of reality to the face—hearing what was probably only a small part of what he did for his father’s business.

“You owe me two questions, first.” I paused, my forehead pinching as I tried to think— “The movie theater room. You asked me why I couldn’t leave and what I was waiting for, and because I’m pretty sure I answered both, it’s my turn now.”

I crossed my arms, trying not to instantly melt at the reminder that he said he’d been waiting for me. “Fine.”

His face softened as he looked me over. “Did he hurt you?”

Pushing the sleeve of my jacket down, I traced the few dots of fresh bruises along my skin. “A little. But I’m okay.”

His knuckles turned pale, and his jaw did that wildly attractive thing it did when he was frustrated or downright pissed as he cursed.

“What’s your last question so I can get an answer to mine?”

“Are you hurt in ways I can’t see?” His voice cracked a fraction.

I pulled the sleeve of my jacket back into place, fixating on the ridges of the zipper. Briggs Andrews, the guy who took out a gunlike it was nothing and was covered in marks and tattoos, was asking about my mental state. “No.” I leaned my head back against the seat. “I’m stronger than that. It was just really…eye-opening, I guess you could say. Now, answer mine—where have you been, Briggs?”

His brow arched as his eyes slid to the side to take me in. “Waiting.”

More waiting?“Waiting for what?”

“For you to need me. To want to talk to me. When I saw that you were at the park I took you to, I—”

“Wait—have you been watching me or something?” I interrupted, my voice shrill.

He was quick to respond. “I’m going to need a clearer question, Rose.”

I scoffed.That’s a yes.“Howlonghave you been watching me for using whatever methods you use, Briggs?”

“Longer than I should have been.” He moved one hand down to shift, then slid that hand right onto my thigh. The warmth in his touch instantly calmed me, and a soft whimper escaped my lips.

I forced down the dryness in my throat—the knowledge that he’d been watching me for who knows how long with that vague answer was unsettling. Anger overwhelmed me, and I slapped his hand. “You don’t get to touch me or follow me around. We broke up, remember?”

“Yet you got in my car and haven’t even bothered to ask where I’m taking you.” The gentle squeeze of his hand was anything but bruising, and I had to bite down on my lip to not think about howthose hands could make me feel. “You’re mine, Rose. Even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself right now.”

As much as I wanted to lash out at him, I couldn’t deny that he was right. I didn’t want to admit it—how many times I’d been thinking about him, how I’d been unable to eat right or sleep since he took me home that day. He had single-handedly consumed all of me, and hearing him say I was his had never felt so right.

Still, defiance rang through to the surface. “What if I don’t want to be yours?” I ground my feet down as my voice quavered, hoping the way my thigh flexed would make him pull away from me.

Instead, his fingers started making languid circles along the sensitive parts of my inner thigh, one finger at a time, like my body had become an instrument humming only to his tune. “If you didn’t want to be mine, you would have started walking home from that park. We both know you’re capable of making your own decisions and how equally capable you are of telling me exactly where to shove it.”

I blinked as I looked at his knowing smirk, then scowled more, because—damn him. If I didn’t feel what I did for him, what I kept trying to tell myself I didn’t feel, then yes, I would have walked away and headed straight for my grandparents’ house while cursing his name the entire time.

But I hadn’t even considered it.

I saw Briggs and became weak yet powerful all at the same time. August tried to take that from me. He tried to weaken me and make me feel small. Briggs never made me feel small or less. He made me feel so muchmore.

The corner of his mouth tilted at my silence. “There’s my good girl,” he whispered. After working so hard to relearn how to use my voice after the fire, I was certainly failing at doing just that lately. My actions, however, were speaking loudly enough to compensate.

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