Chapter 28

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Fireflies and commitment issues.

Briar

Fireflies are romantic. And charming. And pure. There isn't a single thing that should cause distress whilst catching fireflies.

Therefore: "Why is Rowan crying?" I stare dully at Chip, who just talked to him and who must be to blame.

He shoots me an innocent look and cocks his curly head like a puppy. "Perhaps he's contemplating mortality?"

My arms fold. "I didn't authorize any communication with my pet."

Chip holds out his hand.

I arch a brow.

"Please provide proof that he's a service animal and cannot be disturbed while working, because he's not wearing a vest, so…"

Lace snorts as she stuffs another firefly in her jar, effectively raising the current population of Glasstopia into the billions. "He'd make an awful service animal."

"Why?" Chip asks. "He's kind of like a German Shepard."

"Too violent. You can't be a service animal if you bite. He'd have to be a police dog."

Chip's smile warms. "You're so smart, Lace."

A switch flips in Lace's brain, and suddenly fireflies are the last thing she's thinking about. Snapping the rubber band back into place around the mesh fabric covering her jar, she sidles up to her husband, and it takes all of two seconds for both of them to forget I'm here. Which is…fine.

Obviously.

It's not like I'm painfully used to it.

Or anything.

At least right now I have other toys to play with.

My gaze drifts toward Rowan, who's looking a little crumpled on the pavilion steps, and I sigh.

Since the conversation between Chip and Lace is growing more uncomfortable for third party members by the second, I slip away. Every inch closing the distance between Rowan and I makes my heart pound a little harder, and I don't know why.

Except, perhaps, that it makes me feel more and more untethered.

Control is my middle name, after all.

Actually, it's Janice, because my parents have a sense of humor. But that's another thing entirely.

I am used to being in control, commanding situations, taking charge, not having anxiety when it comes to approaching anyone.

Am I still messed up over last night? Even though Rowan in all his spreadsheet glory reviewed the situation and came to an adequate conclusion before I ever woke up?

Is it because I don't know exactly what I said and the information no longer appears accessible even though I stole his iPad earlier?

Is it because…I think I have a crush on him?

When I make it within a few feet of the man I may have a bad crush on, a chill cuts straight down my spine. I clear my throat. "Hey…buddy."

Sniffling—adorably, might I add—Rowan murmurs, "Hey."

I wet my lips, inexplicably parched. "You all right?"

"Fantastic. Can't you tell?"

"Oh, yeah, totally." I bite my lip as I take a seat beside him and smooth my skirt against my thighs. It's ridden up quite a bit, and I'm not hoping in any way that it's at least subconsciously driving Rowan mental. That would be very wrong of me. "I, too, sob openly when I'm doing well."

Rowan lifts the neckline of his shirt and wipes his face. "I had noticed that, yes."

My stomach is doing unhelpful things. So I ask, "Would you like to talk about your feelings?" and cram all of my feelings down into the Mariana Trench of my soul.

"I don't know. Would you?"

I just about choke. Going stiff, I stutter, "W-what in the Uno reverse card do you mean?"

"Chip says you're lonely."

My mouth falls open, and I shoot a look at my former friend. He's kissing his wife. So I jerk my attention off them, and state, "How dare he."

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

Rowan's eyes roll. "Briar. You're doing that thing where you're an annoyance on purpose again."

Indeed I am.

Consider it a coping mechanism.

I wet my lips, tug down my skirt. "Don't tell me you're crying because you think I'm lonely. That would be very weird of you."

"Would it?"

"Very."

Rowan makes a low sound as he slips his hand around mine, causing my skirt to immediately ride back up. Shadows caress his fingers where our skin meets, and insurmountable heat floods my chest. "If your control preferences must know, I didn't lie when you asked the first time."

I balk.

He glares, tenderly. "What?"

"Your happy tears radiate just had to put my dog down."

Planting his chin in his hand and his elbow on his knee, he watches me. "I'm sorry. How do you prefer your men to look when they're crying?"

Guilt squeezes a fist around my heart. "I… I don't have any preferences. I don't want you to cry."

His free hand lifts to my cheek and runs a knuckle below my eye. "Last night is still eating you alive, isn't it?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yes."

Squeezing his hand, I dare to scoot in a little closer, until our thighs brush. "I've told you before how much I like you. As a person."

He curls his arm around my back and sighs. "You seem so fond of that detail. As though liking me as a person isn't the best kind of way to like someone."

I ignore that. "I feel terrible for everything I said. I'm not an explicitly honest person by any means, but you are someone very special, and I hate the idea that my own voice might be in the back of your head, contradicting that fact."

Unlacing our fingers, Rowan grips the hem of his shirt. As the fabric rises, my stomach constricts. With every exposed inch, ice washes through my veins, and my mouth goes dry.

Knots upon knots of welted flesh mar his defined muscles. The darkness around us fits into every pit and valley, highlighting cruelty in striking ways. It's not even a patchwork of abuse because I can't tell what pieces of him have been sewn back together and what pieces were carved away completely. Mutilated only begins to describe what I'm looking at.

Apathetic, he removes the support of his arm from behind me and presents his entire chest. "It's like this on my back, too. In case you were wondering why I've never so much as changed shirts in front of you." His fingers skim down the center of his abs. "The nerve damage is a—" He curses. "—trip. Some odd mixture of numb and overly sensitive." He digs a finger into his gut. "I swear it feels like I'm touching a spot on my back when I do this."

"It doesn't…still hurt, does it?"

"It used to. Not so much anymore. Sometimes, I'd get random sharp pains so violent I couldn't breathe until they passed."

My heart thumps in my ears.

"My parents beat emotions out of me, for my own good. They trained me not to compromise the family, no matter what. They taught me how to make someone else suffer, using my own body as the example." Rowan's gaze lifts, meeting mine. "Through it all, I trusted them and their reasons. I found sick validation in their pride when I learned to handle their abuse without screaming. I relied on them in my abnormal world and assumed it was normal, given the circumstances. I never doubted them, and I wasn't taught to question them."

Tears burn in my eyes until the heat overflows.

Rowan catches a droplet with a kiss as he lets his shirt fall back down. "Compared to what I've been through, sweetheart, your verbal tantrum was cute." Threading his fingers in my hair, he murmurs, "I'm also better at lining up evidence and assessing the truth from it now than I once was."

My voice cracks. "You shouldn't have to endure any abuse, Rowan. Just because you've dealt with worse doesn't mean last night was okay."

"I'm not saying it was okay." His lips graze my forehead. "I'm saying just now, for the first time in my life, I thought all of it was worth it if it meant winding up here. With you."

My heart jolts, and I knock over one of Rowan's firefly jars. It hits the wood platform of the pavilion and rolls an inch before the rubber band snaps off the lid, freeing the tiny creatures in a gleaming cascade. Specks of light reflect in Rowan's dark eyes while he watches.

When his gaze slips back to me, the touch of a wry smile softens his mouth. "Am I irritating your commitment issues with my unyielding affection?"

"A little," I whisper, breathless. "I… It's…" Swallowing, I give myself a moment to remember how to speak. "I told you my secrets about how I use people, and then I shattered your trust. You shouldn't want anything to do with me. You should come to your senses. The truth where I'm concerned isn't pretty."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"While you're sitting here—horrified by how well you've manipulated me into caring about you—I'm contemplating all the ways I can return the favor. Once we're even, you won't have anything to feel guilty about, right?" He hooks a finger beneath my too short skirt, pulls it down over as much of my thighs as it can cover, and kisses me. "You're allowed to regret making me want you, but only until I've made you want me more."

My hand finds its way to his chest, slips down the contorted ridges, and toys with the hem of his shirt, gripping the fabric like a lifeline.

Husky and deep, he whispers, "Do you want to touch me?"

"Rowan…"

"You may, if exploring the horrors of my past interests you."

I shudder, planting my face at the crook of his neck. Voice tight, I whisper, "I want to make them pay. For every mark. For every moment. For the rest of their lives. Death is too kind. They should grow old, suffering at my hand."

His arms wrap around me, pull me ever closer. His fingertips dance up my arm, unravel mine from his shirt, and place my palm flat against his bare, mangled flesh. "I think I have better things for your hands to do."

Everything inside me trembles. Pulling back, I find his eyes as he lifts a firefly from my hair.

The small creature takes flight from his nail, gleaming between us a moment before its gone.

I think…

I think I want him.

I think I may always want him.

Even when all the cards in this hand are dealt and there are no pieces left on the board.

I will want him.

"Are you sure?" I trace a ridge of his abs until it knots.

"Positive."

"You know what it sounds like you're saying, right?"

"Princess." He scoops me into his arms and stands. "I'm fourteen years older than you. I know exactly what I'm suggesting."

Every exposed inch of my flesh blazes while I search his eyes.

"I'm not trying to manipulate you into doing anything by using the opportunity to peruse my scar tissue. Given your interest in jars of fingers, I feel as though that should be said."

A weak laugh escapes me, and I bury my face against his chest, close, not close enough. "That makes me sound awful, like I thrive on the macabre."

"Lucky me. I might just be your type."

I hate how right he is. I hate how the only thing in my head is an idea of kissing every twisted part of him until our skin melts together and we're a tapestry of bad decisions.

My arms coil around his chest. His biting scent fills my lungs. I draw it in until it's so strong I can taste it. Then I whisper, "Fine."

"Such enthusiasm." His face tucks down, lips to my hair, breath on the shell of my ear. "This is important, princess. Make me believe I'm something you really want."

I don't remember a time I've wanted anything more…except…maybe…

No.

We don't think about that. Papa always told me it was pointless to waste time wanting impossible things, unless, of course, they aren't impossible at all.

Without lifting my burning face, I whisper, "Please, Rowan. I want you."

Kissing the top of my head, Rowan abandons his other jar of fireflies and carries me inside.

All the way up the stairs.

And into our room.