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Or so we’d thought.
Yeah. We’d believed ourselves to be kings of the mountain. I yanked my arm from under the covers, turning it over. I’d even had a tattoo done, albeit crude, with the symbol we’d used. Stupid kids. Stupid, irresponsible kids.
Belle. You didn’t deserve to die the way you did.
When I finally closed my eyes, her sweet face slid into my vision. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and I had a feeling she’d heard me.
“Jesus. We’re can’t get through this,” Holt yelled, from the distance.
The smoke was so goddamn thick I couldn’t see a thing. “Come on, Belle. Where are you? Where are you, girl?” I stumbled over a fallen limb, landing on my face. Pain tore through my face and shoulder, but I refused to stop, lumbering forward into the swirl of blackness. I could swear I heard her call my name. The others were close. I could hear them fighting just as hard as I was.
“Stop. Breathe. I got you,” Riggs told Holt. There was utter terror in his voice.
“This is crazy. We can’t do this,” Holt moaned.
“Yeah, we can.” Riggs might be certain but at this point I didn’t think any of us could make it. We’d pledged to protect each other through thick and thin, life and death. But not like this. Please, dear God. Not. Like. This. I continued struggling with the underbrush, realizing I was going in circles. Then I bolted toward a clearing, only to realize I’d make a complete three-sixty, ending up where I’d started.
I dropped to the ground, the air sucked out of me. “I can’t… I tried… No. Use.”
“We have to. I can’t. I won’t,” Holt yelled again, struggling to breathe as much as I was.
“Fuck, no. Get out of here. I’m not coming back until Belle is found. Do you fucking hear me?” Riggs started racing toward the fire again, but Maverick tackled him from behind.
“No! We’re not losing you too. We’re getting the fuck out of here,” Maverick growled.
“No. No…”
Exhaling, I opened my eyes, anguish tearing through my head as well as my heart. My vision was foggy, my mind an ugly blur and when I wiped my eyes to try to see, I realized I’d been crying in my sleep.
CHAPTER7
Chasity
Roses.
I’d always loved them. My mother had a little garden just outside the back door, the beautiful pink and red roses fragrant and lush. She’d tended to them sometimes for what seemed like hours. Pruning. Feeding. Watering. My dad had wanted to cut them down several times, even threatening to do so. It was the one thing my mother had said she’d leave him over.
And I believed her.
At first, I didn’t understand why he didn’t like them. Until the fateful day when I was playing catch outside, missing the ball then tumbling into the three massive bushes. Thorns had pricked nearly every inch of my body, including my face. It had taken my mother three full hours to pick them off me.
I’d cried for hours, never wanting to go near them again. That was the time I’d been forced to realize that often something so beautiful had a dark side.
As I stared at the roses I’d been sent, my stomach churned. They were gorgeous, perfect specimens in every way, but I hated them. I walked closer, trying to understand how I could loathe something so exquisite.
I was a trained professional, including in psychology. I knew that fears of this nature could be conquered. Snake had sent them because he was sorry, the gesture lovely. Here I was thinking terrible things about them. Half laughing, I remembered a few things my professors had talked about in trying to get over night terrors or other fears.
They can’t hurt you unless you allow them to.
Easier said than done for so many people, but this was a small, simple fear. Right? I was up to the challenge, determined to get over it right now. So I grabbed one from the vase with every finger.
I felt the sharp pricks immediately, and almost in slow motion, I allowed the rose to fall to the floor, several of the delicate petals floating away. Then I noticed the thorns before allowing my gaze to slide to my fingers.
Bright red drops of blood adorned the pads of three fingers. I held my hand into the light, fighting the anxiety that was churning in my stomach, the lightheadedness that had swept through my head.
There was no florist in the world who left thorns on a bouquet of roses.
Unless requested.
