Rose
I kept my eyes on him, refusing to blink. In my head I had already written the scene. I'd seen it in a movie once with Cassian. The girl confessed, the guy rejected her, and her heart broke cleanly. I was expecting that too.
Who would love someone they'd just betrayed? Unless they were crazy like me.
I waited for his rejection. Not that I'd take it. Oh no. I had a Plan B. I would knock him out, drag him to one of my secret warehouses, and lock him away where I could obsess over him without restraint.
But instead of rejection, I saw relief flicker across his face.
Why is he relieved?
"I'm not expecting a response now," I said softly. His brow furrowed.
"After I'm done with Adrian, then I'll get your answer. Good?"
He nodded, still looking as though someone had stolen his words.
"Can you do me a favor?" I asked, my voice light, hiding everything.
"Anything," he replied too quickly.
"How many days do I have left in this house before he strikes?"
Asher reached for his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. "One week," he said finally.
Good. That was enough time for me.
I let my eyes drift downward. Not to his face, but to his chest. Tattoos. Intriguing tattoos. Dark ink curling over golden-brown skin like secrets carved into flesh. My fingers itched to touch them.
One on his ribs — a small, stark black number XIV.
Another across his collarbone — a jagged blade entwined with roses.
A third running down his side — a woman's hand reaching toward a dark ocean.
I didn't know their meaning, "what do they mean?" I was curious because I have seen a lot of tatts and Cassian and I both have tatts just for fun. He took my hand and placed it on the tattoo on his rib "Prison at fourteen." What could he have done at fourteen to be in jail?.
He took my hand again to the tattoo across his collarbone "My first kill." Then the tattoo that ran down his side "My mother's death.". His sins written where no one could erase them.
"Beautiful," I whispered, and my finger traced one of them before I realized what I was doing. The muscle under my touch flexed. Heat spread through me.
Without thinking, I swung my leg over him and straddled his lap, needing his consent. "Can I?" I asked, my voice low.
He nodded.
I leaned forward and kissed one tattoo, then another, drawing the shape with my tongue, slow and deliberate. He groaned — a low, rough sound that vibrated against my lips. That sound sent a shiver through me, made me ache with need.
I moved lower, down to the edge of his V-line, kissing the skin just above, leaving a trail of damp heat. I dragged my tongue upward, then found the sensitive spot at his neck and sucked hard, marking him. He hissed out a breath, trying to keep control.
That pissed me off. I wanted him undone. I wanted him to moan for me and only me. I bit down a little harder, leaving a red mark. When I pulled back, I admired my work. My masterpiece.
He is mine. Mine. Only mine.
I leaned closer, my lips brushing his ear. "Let me hear you, love," I whispered, grinding my hips against him. Feeling him hard under me was a dangerous satisfaction, a power I hadn't expected.
He trembled under my hands, trying to speak.
I slid lower, my fingers brushing the edge of his belt. I undid it slowly, one button at a time, teasing. "What—" he started, but I pressed a finger to his lips to hush him. His breath hitched.
I peeled his belt away, my hands steady even though my heart was racing. I traced the skin of his stomach with my nails, feeling him quiver. "How many have had you like this?" I murmured, my palm wrapping gently around him, squeezing just enough to feel the tension coiled in him.
"None," he breathed, his voice raw. "I don't let anyone. Rose… you're the first."
The words filled me with a dark, hot joy. First. Mine.
"Then let me be your last," I whispered and I will take it that way. my lips brushing his jaw.
His eyes locked with mine. All the walls he'd built, all the coldness he'd shown — gone. Just Asher and me, the air thick with heat and something like hunger. I pressed my forehead to his, feeling his breath on my lips.
This wasn't the full taking. Not yet. That would come later. This was me claiming him, marking him, tasting the edges of the fire we'd both been dancing around.
I let my hands wander over the tattoos again, mapping his pain, his history, his sins. Each touch drew another groan from him, softer now, like he couldn't help himself. My name slipped out of his mouth once, quiet, like a prayer.
Rose Varela. His.
And mine.