Chapter 26

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It's more than a like, like, more than a mistake.

Briar

My dream breaks, splintering into a screaming headache. Whimpering, I gulp down a breath and curl away from the sensation of wakefulness.

Pity.

Consciousness alone is too much for me to bear.

In horrific snapshots, last night pulses in the back of my mind, echoing things I wish didn't actually happen.

Swallowing feels like choking on sand, so I whisper a curse and fight my own throat as I line up the pieces of what I remember.

Corbin challenged me to a game of beer pong with shots of tequila.

Not only was he good at it, he also holds his liquor better than I do, which means he was good at it longer.

Alas, I was raised with parents who taught me how to be the ax murderer you want to see in the world, not how to resist peer pressure; therefore, when my limit crept up on me, I was already too drunk to ignore Corbin's cheap taunts. If only Chip or Lace had been there, they could have intervened. Unfortunately, my stupid friends were out on a date. Or something. Now that I'm in a place where I'm reluctantly thinking about it, yesterday might have been their anniversary.

Screw them.

Screw romance.

Screw…everything.

I don't deserve to be in Rowan's bed after what I said to him last night. I misunderstood what was going on, blamed him for my collapse of cognitive function, then got inexplicably hurt.

Whenever the lump of flesh in my skull has the audacity to feel something, it affects everything. In me. Around me. The pain is all I can think about, so my response is always elaborate, extreme, insane.

I know why I lashed out.

But that doesn't explain why I felt.

Even now that I can almost chronologically place yesterday's events, I don't understand the chilling hurt that crawled into my veins when I thought Rowan had betrayed me.

I'm used to betrayal.

I don't care about betrayal. People who betray me are idiots because trying to stab me in the back is a sure way to lose everything I offer to those I claim. I've always given more to my relationships than anyone has ever given to me, so my absence alone destroys my opposition.

I don't have to waste my time on idiots who thought they could manage without me. I don't have time to feel bad that I'm no longer cohorting with the ignorant.

After all, losing someone to betrayal is nothing like losing someone to death.

When someone disappears against their will, when someone still wants to be with me…but can't… That hurts. That's the only leaving that I ever allow myself to feel.

I've seen enough gunfights, territory disputes, and kidnappings to know the difference between the annoyance of someone inevitably destroying themselves and the kind of agony that deserves my attention.

Last night, if Rowan had betrayed me, it should have been an annoyance.

I should have laughed my head off at the mere idea of it until I passed out again.

How am I supposed to recover from what actually happened now?

I'm…ashamed.

The dense throb in my skull vibrates through my teeth, up my jaw, down my neck. The ringing in my bones makes it hard to breathe, and I want nothing more than to fade into the abyss again—never to return.

My options look grim.

Either Rowan—in all his kindness and goodness—forgives me, and I suffocate on the resulting guilt, or he stops trusting me, and I lose everything I've worked for.

Actually.

Maybe that second option isn't so bad.

Rowan is a good businessman. If this has severed the feelings he's been toying with recently, that doesn't mean he'd opt out of finishing things up with the Maxim Project. Clearly, he's not pissed enough to throw me out of his room.

Things in Veleno are more stable now.

I've done enough.

He can probably stand on his own.

He doesn't need me meddling in his affairs anymore.

If he tries to forgive me, I should…I should pretend that he's learned the truth, and there's no reason for us to keep playing this game.

It's for the best, for him. I just…

I don't know.

It still feels so cruel. I made him cry. He's come to care so much about me that whatever I said made him cry. I never started any of this with the intention to hurt him. I was supposed to help. I guess I never expected that he'd become someone so precious to me that just the idea of him leaving would make me panic in the only way I know how.

Dramatically.

Pressing my hands to my face, I battle the pain and the aches and the threat of more tears.

"Princess?"

My heart jolts at the sound of Rowan's voice, and I pull my hands away from my eyes. Seated in the corner of the couch nearest to me, with Bugsy atop his head, is Rowan. The little bird preens strands of his hair, causing them to stick out like a dark anemone. It's ridiculous. And dear.

And I really, really, really don't hate him.

Not even a little.

Not even if he had betrayed me.

Rowan stands, and Bugsy trills, abandoning his nest in favor of returning to a perch in his cage. Every one of Rowan's footsteps echos in my chest, dull thud after dull thud.

My heart lurches when he sits on the edge of the bed, dipping the mattress and drawing me into his gravity. Rustling the nest out of his hair, he searches me with stringent intent. "How are you feeling?"

Like garbage. I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. I want to go back to bed. I want to undo last night. Honestly, not having an undo button in real life feels like a major design flaw. "Good."

"Don't lie to me."

Cowering isn't exactly my style, but it is truly the only word that describes my physical response to the way he's looking at me. To fight my own self-loathing and battle for a sense of normalcy, I say, "Fantastic."

Silently, with his eyebrows alone, he dares me to continue down this path of destruction.

He'd be an amazing father.

Dropping my gaze, I murmur, "My head hurts." And there's a lingering chasm of shame and sadness in the pit of my chest. "Does Lace really willingly opt-in to this experience? Crazy." No wonder she doesn't wake up till noon. I forgive her for stabbing me that one time.

Wholly justified.

Rowan plucks a glass of water off the nightstand and offers me a pill.

"Poison?" I ask, hopefully.

His jaw clenches. "Advil."

Easing myself upright, I murmur, "Drug dealer seems a little under your pay grade."

The firm line of his lips pinches then parts. "Do you remember what happened last night?"

My fingers flinch around the glass of water. Hesitant, I slip the pill into my mouth.

His cool palm slides against my cheek, forcing my eyes to his as I swallow. His eyes lock on my throat. Heat swarms when he grazes the pad of his thumb down the line of my esophagus. "Yes, then?" His hand closes around my neck moments before he leans in and forces my mouth to his.

He doesn't wait long to cut off my air, and I'm still choking long after he pulls away. Coughing as his hand releases me, I gasp, forcing breath into my lungs.

Scrubbing his mouth, he swears, "—stale…" Right when I think the burning in my lungs has subsided, he catches my jaw again and makes me look at him. "And yet…you're still the best thing I've ever tasted."

My cheeks explode, my ears blazing.

I am sorely unprepared to navigate whatever is going on during a hangover. When he sets me squarely aside in favor of getting his tablet off the nightstand, I teeter, hardly catching myself on my hands before I tumble after his shifting weight.

"What do you remember?" he asks.

Half dizzy, I stare as he opens a document with everything that happened last night recorded in terrible black and white. Some things, I remember.

Some.

Some I don't.

The words cut into my chest as the horrors consume my every aching thought.

"What was that?" Rowan murmurs before I realize I've said a thing.

Broken, I repeat the words. "I'm…so sorry." I have to close my eyes. I don't anticipate the sensation of a tear to trace down my cheek.

Nor would I ever expect Rowan to wipe it away.

"I didn't mean any of it. I was confused, and scared, and I took it out on you. I'm so—so sor—"

Rowan chuckles.

I find the cynicism on his face. It's a dreadful, wry expression—completely raw. It sends a chill through me, suffocating my apology.

"Sweetheart—" A man has never sounded more patronizing around me and lived. "—do you think you could possibly hate me as much as I hate myself?" He scrolls through the text on his iPad, indifferent. "Weak. Pitiful. Stupid, frustrating, pathetic. Nothing." His smile falls as he stops with his finger beside the bold word. "I appreciate knowing what you really think of me."

"I don—"

His gaze spears me. "You don't?" He hums. "Well, whether you do or not, it doesn't matter." Shutting the device off, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "What you think of me comes nowhere close to mattering right now, Briar. It hurts, sure, but knowing my faults is nothing new. Not only that, I didn't believe you believed any of this before your claim just now. You can think I'm a delusional idiot, still clinging to an idea that I'm special or different, but—" His eyes snap open. "—I've seen the way your body moves for me. I've memorized the soft sounds that escape you when my hands are on you. I've held you. For nights on end. I've lain awake as you unconsciously, desperately, press closer until we're a tangle of limbs. I smell like you." His hand falls against my leg, over the comforter, and even though there's thick fabric, a sheet, and my dress between, I feel the weight of each finger. "If there is any truth to what you said, you've given me permission to rewrite your brain, haven't you?"

"I—"

His fingers squeeze my leg, commanding. "Haven't you?"

My stomach dips down so very low. I whisper, "Yes."

"So all these points, all the things you said that are weighing like a steaming—" He swears. "—cesspool of guilt in your eyes don't matter in the slightest. Do they?"

All at once, the fear of letting whatever this is between us go too far morphs into something equally terrifying—the fear of not going far enough.

I'm not here to want him. I'm not here to touch him or taste him or have him.

If he knew the truth about my family, about me, about everything, he wouldn't be able to reason like this. We don't get to be safe. Ours is not a world where safe things thrive.

"I never meant to hurt you, Rowan. I promise. I was upset and confused. I thought you'd tried to hurt me, so I tried to get even. That's all. I'm sorry."

"Hurt me?" His fingers dig into my thigh, crushing. "Briar, you scared me."

"Scared…you?"

"Do you not remember asking me to kill you?"

My heart constricts.

Calculation ripples in his dark, menacing eyes like he's debating whether or not to speak.

While he deliberates, I pretend panic isn't eating me alive. If I asked him to kill me, what else don't I remember? I wouldn't have babbled anything important, right? I'm still a professional. I would die before giving up my plots prematurely.

Is that… Would that be why? Would accidentally telling him everything be why I asked him to kill me?

How much does he know?

My gaze catches on his tablet, and I find myself reaching for it.

He stops my hand. "You don't remember."

Mouth dry, I murmur, "I need to check your very lovely notes…"

"Checking someone else's notes because you didn't pay attention in class is cheating." His eyes narrow. "You don't cheat."

"I didn't realize there would be a quiz."

A brow arches. "A quiz?"

I swallow, hard. "I don't want to flunk."

"Briar, I'm not testing you. I'm worried."

My heart fractures. After everything I do and don't remember, he's…worried about me?

Releasing my hand, he scrubs his face. "You were sobbing. Hysterical. I've been up all night replaying everything that happened, and it seems so much like you were trying to get me furious so I'd…" His voice cracks when he swears, and all his lethal calculation melts away until he's just plain…miserable. He whispers, "Are you okay?"

Am I…

No.

Not even a little bit.

My attention drops to my midsection, and I discover a wide hole splitting the corset-style seam of my dress. "My clothes are ripped…"

"Briar. Please don't change the subject."

"Why are my clothes ripped? This is one of my favorite dresses."

"Briar." His grip around my thigh pries into my muscles, bruising.

I flinch. "Fine. Fine. I guess I'm a depressive, angry drunk, Rowan. I don't know what else you want from me."

"Everything, but that's not the point right now. I need to know that you're okay."

Okay?

Are any of us okay? Okay feels like the kind of luxury the ignorant enjoy. I'm too far gone to ever be okay. But I am content. "Every day I wake up and choose happiness. It takes effort. Especially these days. I'm not okay, but I'm here, and here is full of possibilities. I like here. There's so much good here. So at least as far as I can help it, I'm not going anywhere else."

Putting his tablet back on the nightstand and slipping the water cup from my fingers to set beside it, he wraps me in an uncompromising hug. His breath fans through my hair. "I'm here, Briar, if you need me."

My chest stings. Guilt rises like a tide to swallow me whole. Maybe he hasn't exactly forgiven me, but despite the roughness, he is still too kind for words. Throat raw, head pulsing, I whisper, "I can take care of myself."

"I know." His fingers comb through my hair. "But you don't have to. I don't want you to."

A tear cascades, hanging suspended on my chin. "After…everything…how can you be this…"

"Stupid?" he murmurs.

Wonderful.

"It's a gift, truly." Taking a fortifying breath, he gathers himself, pulls away. Using the hem of his shirt, he dries my tears and kisses my forehead. "Come on. Get your shower. Breakfast will help with your hangover. And Lace has been trying to contact you for hours."

I bristle. Hours? As in, while it was still morning?

That's never good.

"Why didn't she barge in?" I ask.

"I told her not to."

"And she listened?"

Rowan coughs into his hand. "I might have lied. By mistake."

I cross my arms. "How do you lie by mistake?"

He mumbles something as he rises, strides across the room to the closet, and pulls out a fresh outfit for me.

"What did you say?"

"I implied that you were indecent." He puts the outfit back, opts for one of the shirts I got at Target, puts that back, too. "Which wouldn't have been alarming on its own, I don't think, except I was in the shower when she started banging on the door—"

"No."

"—and I was worried she'd wake you."

I crumple on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. "No."

He takes a deep breath. "So I rushed out after yanking on my boxers, blurted Briar's indisposed at the moment, got a once-over, and probably gave her the wrong idea."

"Probably?"

"Absolutely."

I swear.

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt." He has the audacity to seem almost pleased when he selects one of my more revealing outfits—tight, crop-top, mini skirt.

My head hurts worse than it did before the Advil started kicking in.

He exits the closet. "Did Chip and Lace actually believe we weren't already—"

"Yes, they do tend to believe what I tell them."

"Interesting."

"Or they used to."

He holds out my clothes. "What a shame. However, dissolving the trust between you and your confidants is on my list of toxic tasks."

Standing, I swipe my outfit from his hands. "Bad."

"I'm ahead of schedule."

"Very, very bad pet."

"Don't chastise me like I'm an animal, princess. No matter if you think I desire a master, I'm not your pet."

"The opposite of a click. No treat for you."

He leans toward me, putting our faces inches apart. Softly, he says, "Behave. Or no treat for you." When my entire body responds—heart leaping, pulse hammering, skin flushing—his lips tip upward.

As soon as eye contact becomes impossible, I usher myself to the bathroom.

Before I can make it in, however, his hand falls against the doorjamb, and I freeze.

His arm snakes around my midsection, fingers dipping past the tear in my dress to graze my stomach. Holding me stationary, he kisses my temple. "I care about you." He kisses my cheek. "You're important to me." My jaw. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere either."

I could thank him. I could be sweet, and grateful, and kind. Or I could end up on the verge of tears—which is what the tightness in my chest votes for. So, I punt every last one of my emotions into the trash. "If you think I'm going to let you shower with me just because you're saying nice things…"

His fingers flex, indenting my skin before slipping away. "Pity. I've already showered this morning. So there'd be no point."

"Not a one?" I face him, find a swathe of warmth painted across his cheeks.

"Not a one." His chin juts toward the bathroom. "But you should go before I come to my senses and find…" He takes me in, slowly, calculatingly. "…many."

Giggling, I confine myself in the bathroom, lean back against the door, and battle with the tempo of my heart.

Crap.

I want him.

Crap, crap, crap.

I want him badly. In every way I shouldn't. In every way I can't.

This…whatever this is…it's more than a simple crush.