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He took another half step. “It’s okay, Brown Eyes.”
“No.” She slashed her hand through the air. “It’s not okay. It hasn’t been ‘okay’ in a long fucking time.”
“You’re going to hyperventilate,” he said.
He’d said that before, when she first woke up. Had that been only this morning? Yesterday? She flashed back to that heartbreaking moment of realization. That he was alive. That he’d been alive.
And that he hadn’t come for her.
She retreated until her back hit the wall. It felt like she was choking. The effort of holding back words that wouldn’t help, that wouldn’t matter, was strangling her.
Warm, sure hands cupped hers. Rose tore her gaze from Weston to look at Marek.
“Rose, if you’d like, I’ll start the shower for you and look for some clothes.”
There was nothing she could do about the trembling that shook her so hard her teeth nearly chattered. “Why are you being kind to me?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Weston loomed over Marek’s shoulder. “She’s grieving, leave her alone.”
Marek frowned, still facing Rose. He met her gaze, trying to communicate something with his eyes. Rose wasn’t sure what it was, but Marek turned to Weston. They were all standing too closely together for it to be casual. Weston and Marek faced each other, their shoulders barely a foot away from her chest.
Rose relaxed. It took her a moment to figure out why she was relaxed. Having them so close to her should have either fucked with her head enough to make her respond as a submissive or frightened her. She had good reason and real-life experience that taught her that might makes right.
But she relaxed. She relaxed because she felt safe.
“Grieving?” Marek asked.
“Yes,” Weston ground out. “The man she loved died.”
“The man she loved?”
Weston’s eye flicked to her then back to Marek. “He’s only been gone a week.”
But I never loved Caden.
“How do you know she loved him?”
“I was…keeping an eye on her. And him, Caden, the guy she loved.”
“But you love her, too?” Marek’s question was quiet but firm. No hint of pity in his voice.
Weston’s eyelids slid down, covering both his remaining good eye and his false one.
“He doesn’t love me.” Rose’s words were strangled. Though she’d relaxed, her throat felt rough, as if holding back her earlier words had actually damaged her esophagus.
“Don’t,” Weston snarled. His chest heaved once, twice. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “You let me hold you.”
“Because I needed to pretend.” She wanted to cry, felt the need to cry, but there were no tears left in her.
“Pretend what?” Weston asked.
“That everything would be okay, but it won’t be. I never will be.” The hooker died tragically as motivation for the sheriff. That’s all she was, a bit part, a secondary character in so many others’ stories.
“Then why didn’t you run?” Marek asked softly.
“Because I have nowhere to go. I have nothing. I am nothing.”
