7. Rose
Rose
"No, nina, you must fold gently. Like this." Abuela's weathered hands demonstrate the proper technique, her fingers deftly crimping the edges of the empanada dough with practiced precision. "The pastry feels your mood. Troubled hands make tough dough."
I watch carefully, trying to mimic her movements, yet mine look pathetically lopsided compared to her perfect half-moon shapes. "I'm terrible at this."
"Terrible?" Abuela clicks her tongue. “Yesterday, you never made an empanada in your life. Now you make twenty, and only five ugly ones." She pats my flour-covered hand, leaving a dusty white print on my skin. "This is progress."
As I work, my mind drifts to the feel of Cipher's lips on mine, his deep, rumbling voice. Then the crushing pain of his rejection, the disgust on his face as he pulled away. The memory leaves me feeling hurt, confused, and humiliated.
The kitchen door swings open, and Rash strolls in, his lean frame filling the doorway. His face brightens when he sees me. "What're you cooking up today, little sis?"
The nickname warms me every time he uses it. In just two weeks, Rash has become the brother I never had. His easy affection and protective nature are like a balm to my battered soul.
"Empanadas," I reply, holding up my latest creation for inspection. "Though Abuela's doing most of the actual cooking."
"Lies!" Abuela calls from the stove. "She makes them almost as good as me now."
Rash grabs a chair, spinning it around to sit with his arms folded over the backrest. "Save me some? Somehow I got stuck with midnight patrol duty in the most remote sector, and the protein bars I usually carry taste like cardboard soaked in artificial strawberry."
I smile, already setting aside a few for him. "Of course. I'll wrap them so you can take them with you."
"You're the best," he says, reaching over to ruffle my hair like I'm a kid, though he can't be more than four or five years older than me. Leaning closer, he adds in a lower voice, "How are you doing? Really?"
The simple question, asked with genuine concern, nearly undoes me.
"I'm okay," I say, focusing on crimping the edges of another empanada.
"Just okay?" His eyes, warm and observant, study my face. "You've been quiet since the wedding.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "I'm always quiet."
"Different kind of quiet." He reaches out, tapping the space between my eyebrows. "You get this little wrinkle right here when you're upset about something. Or someone…?”
Heat crawls up my neck. Am I that transparent? "It's nothing. Just... adjusting."
"You know I'm here, right? If you need to talk, or if you need someone's ass kicked." He winks, trying to lighten the mood. "I may not be the scariest looking dude in the club, but I'm scrappy." He exaggeratedly flexes his bicep.
The image of Rash trying to "kick the ass" of someone like Cipher—a man who radiates lethal capability—almost makes me laugh despite my melancholy. “Thanks, Rash. I’ll keep that in mind."
Rash looks like he wants to say more, but Abuela returns, shooing him away from the workstation. "No distracting my assistant! Go, go. Come back when the food is ready."
He rises, giving me a look that clearly says this conversation isn't over. "I'll hold you to those empanadas, little sis." At the door, he pauses. "Oh, almost forgot why I came in. Angel and Sophie are looking for you. Something about coffee in the courtyard?"
My stomach flips nervously. I like Angel and Sophie, but social interactions still feel like navigating a minefield. Years of isolation left me with limited skills for casual conversation.
"Go," Abuela says, noticing my hesitation. "The empanadas can wait. Young women should talk with other young women, not old ladies in kitchens."
"But I like talking with you," I protest honestly.
She smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. "And I like talking with you. But you need friends your age too. Go, go." She makes shooing motions with her hands. "But first, wash the flour off your face."
Five minutes later, I step into the small courtyard behind the kitchen. Angel and Sophie sit at the wrought iron table cradling coffee mugs. A third steaming mug waits for me at an empty chair.
"There she is!" Angel exclaims. "We were starting to think you were avoiding us."
"Sorry," I say, sliding into the empty seat. "I was helping Abuela with empanadas."
Sophie smiles. “I think she's adopted you."
"She's teaching me a lot," I say, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.
"You feeling okay?" Angel asks, her sharp eyes noting my moodiness.
“Fine," I reply, taking a small sip of coffee.
The women exchange a look I can't quite interpret. “So,” Angel asks with studied casualness, “how are things going with a certain intelligence officer?"
“You know, the brooding hottie who can't seem to take his eyes off you?" Sophie leans forward, eyes wide and focused, expression one of extreme nosiness.
My heart rate kicks up at the mention of Cipher, my fingers tightening around the mug. "He doesn't look at me," I protest. "He actively avoids me."
Angel laughs, the sound sharp and disbelieving. "Oh, honey. Just because you don't catch him looking doesn't mean it's not happening."
"I've seen the surveillance room," Sophie adds. "Those cameras see everything, and he watches those feeds all day long. Blade says there are more cameras now than there were a month ago, especially in areas where you spend time."
The thought of Cipher watching me through cameras sends a confusing mix of emotions through me—mostly excitement and longing.
My skin prickles with awareness, imagining his eyes on me even now.
"If he's interested in me, he has a funny way of showing it," I mutter, remembering the disgust on his face after our kiss.
Angel bites her bottom lip, her expression softening. "Cipher is... complicated. Even by Shadow Reapers' standards, which is saying something."
"What do you mean? Complicated how?” The question slips out before I can stop it, my curiosity overriding my usual caution.
The women exchange another pointed look. "Not our story to tell," Angel says finally. "But I will say this—he's been through things that would break most people. Things that did break people."
"He's not good in social situations,” Sophie adds. "Never has been, according to Blade. But that doesn't mean he doesn't feel things. He just...processes differently."
I trace the rim of my mug, considering their words.
“Last night at Luna's wedding reception,” I begin hesitantly, "we…
um, talked." I can't bring myself to tell them about the kiss, about the way his hands felt in my hair, his lips against my skin.
The memory alone makes my body temperature rise, a flush spreading across my chest. "For a minute, I thought.
..but then he just shut down. He looks at me like I disgust him. "
“It’s not disgust," Angel says confidently. “It’s fear."
I blink, confused. "Fear?”
I can’t imagine a huge, dangerous man like Cipher being afraid of anything.
“Of what?” I question. “Me?" The idea is absurd. I'm five-foot-nothing and have never thrown a punch in my life. Cipher could break me in half with his pinky fingers.
"Of feeling something," Sophie explains. "Of caring. Of letting someone in."
"Or maybe I just disgust him,” I counter, the simpler explanation feeling more plausible. "Maybe he regrets rescuing me."
Angel's laugh is genuine this time. "Trust me, that man doesn't regret finding you. Quite the opposite. Ghost caught him installing extra cameras outside your room 'for security.' That's Cipher-speak for 'I'm obsessed but won't admit it.'"
"Then why?—"
"Because caring about someone means having something to lose," Sophie interrupts gently. "And men like Cipher, they'd rather be alone than risk that pain."
The words strike a chord within me. I understand that fear—the terror of opening yourself to more hurt, more loss.
“It doesn't matter," I say, trying to convince myself as much as them. "Whatever I thought I felt for him... it was probably just gratitude. He rescued me, so my mind attached to him. It's not real."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Angel's gaze is too perceptive, too knowing.
I nod firmly, ignoring the way my heart protests the lie. "It has to be. Anything else is just... fantasy." I take another sip of coffee, ignoring the way my stomach protests. "He's made it clear he's not interested. I need to respect that and move on."
"If that's what you want," Sophie says, clearly unconvinced.
"It is." The lie feels heavy on my tongue. "Besides, I'm focusing on figuring out who I am now. What I want to do with my life. I can't build an identity around a man, especially one who doesn't want me."
Angel raises her mug in a mock toast. "That's an incredibly healthy attitude. I'm impressed."
Fortunately, the conversation shifts to lighter topics—I learn a lot about the club, club life in an MC, and some of the people who live here.
Angel, whose real name is Mira, has started a charity for young adults who have aged out of the foster care system.
Sophie works as a veterinary technician at a local vet office, which explains the two dogs I’ve seen running around the place—Paco, a chihuahua that belongs to Abuela, and Max, a German Shepard that used to belong to Sophie’s mean and abusive aunt until Sophie rescued it.
I participate in the conversation as best I can, asking questions, laughing at the right moments, all while my mind is completely preoccupied.
The truth is, I can't stop thinking about Cipher. About how, despite the way he turned tail and ran after that kiss, something deep inside me recognizes him as mine in a way I can't explain or rationalize.
After coffee, I return to my familiar chores around the compound. As I work, I make a silent vow to myself. I will get over Cipher. I will stop looking for him in every room I enter. I will stop hoping for another glimpse of the tenderness he sometimes lets peek through.
So what if he scooped me up from that container floor while I was sweaty and dirty and terrified?
So what if he looked at me like I was precious instead of worthless?
So what if he called me "Baby Girl" in a voice that made my entire body respond?
He didn't even know my name then. It probably means nothing—just what he calls every woman whose name he doesn't know.
I tell myself these things as I ignore the hollow ache in my chest and the tight knot in my stomach. I tell myself these things, and I almost believe them.
Almost.