“Ready?” Rose’s voice sounds thick and distant. Is she leaving? Fuck, she can’t.
“Someone stop her,” I demand. “She’s my prisoner.”
“Shut up, you jerk.” She’s close now, and I grapple thin air for her, feeling her breath on my cheek. “Ringo, get him under his legs. Brad, you get his arms. Esther, would you mind bringing some water to my room?”
“It’s my fucking room,” I spit, feeling my body leave the ground. “And I can walk.” I’m a joke. I can barely talk. “Youuuu are my prisoner.” My body starts to bob mildly, and Brad chuckles his way up the million steps, his face suspended above mine.
“What’s so fucking funny?” I snipe.
“The only prisoner I see around here is you, Danny.”
“Go fuck y—”
“I’ve fucked myself enough today, thanks.”
I land on something soft, my sense of smell bombarded with the sweet, stunning smell of her. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, getting as much of it as I can. My eyes become impossible to keep open, and my mouth dries quickly from hanging open.
Rose. Rose Lillian Cassidy. Oh, how you’ve fucked me over good and proper. I fucking hate you. I hate everything. But I especially hate you.
No, you don’t.
Yes, I do.
You don’t.
I do.
Don’t.
Do.
“I don’t hate you,” I slur, my voice even more muffled, my body on the move. I drag myself to the edge of the bed, tossing my legs off the side and sitting up. The fucking room spins at a hundred miles an hour, around and around, forcing my hand to come up and cling to my head. “Fuck.” Where am I? What the fuck’s going on? I hear the door close and peek up through squinting eyes. The slim silhouette of a female figure approaches, finally coming into view when she’s just a foot away. I look up and lift my hand, reaching for Rose and tugging her forward until she’s standing between my legs. My head falls onto her stomach. I feel her hands in my hair. I settle against her. “I told you ev . . . everything about meeee,” I mumble. “And you won’t tell me anything about you.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she says, pacifying me, rubbing soothing circles through my hair with her fingers.
“No, now,” I order, forcing my limp body away from hers. “Talk to me now.”
She smiles. It’s the smile that makes me truly happy. A rare and precious smile. And I put it there. Her hand cups my cheek and she dips a little, coming close to my slumped form. “You won’t remember a damn thing if I tell you anything now.”
“You wanted to die.”
“I want the impossible, and that makes me want to die.”
“Nothing is impossible,” I argue. “Nothing.”
“Everything is impossible.” She rests her lips on my scarred cheek, and I seize her, pulling her down to the bed with me. I can do no more than hold her to me, my body now done for the day.
“One day, I’m going to prove you wrong.” I close my eyes and fight my way through the room spin.
“I hope I’m here to see you do that,” she replies, making me frown into my darkness.
“Why, where else would you be?” She’s my prisoner. Why does everyone keep forgetting that detail? “You’re going nowhere, Rose L . . . L . . . Lillian Cassidyyy. Unless . . . unless it’s with me.”
Chapter 20
ROSE
* * *
I should feel great. I don’t. I had to pry myself from his arms last night. Strip him down. Redress the cuts on his arms after he ripped the bandages off, knowing I caused those. Watch him murmur and whimper in his sleep. Seeing him like that—so drunk, so raw, open and vulnerable . . .
It hurt. He won’t remember a thing. He won’t wake up and recall any of the things he said, what he did, how he held on to me with all he had.
That’s why I don’t feel great.
And the message on my phone is the reason I have to leave. Now.
* * *
Stupid Rose
* * *
There’s a picture of me. I’m with Danny. On his terrace. I close my eyes briefly. Nowhere is safe. Not even Danny’s mansion. His lips are on my chest. The photo is taken from above. From the sky. A drone? Here, in this moment in the picture, I’m a different woman. And to Nox, I am a dangerous woman.
He’s texted me. He never texts me. He’s taken a risk, and that alone shows his state of mind. The phone buzzes in my hand again, making me startle, and another picture appears. A low, broken sob escapes me when I see a photo of my son. He’s getting on a school bus, a backpack being dragged behind him, some soccer cleats slung over his shoulder, joined by the laces. I don’t have a second to appreciate him. This isn’t a reward. This is the end. My thumbs work without thought, bashing the keys across the screen.