44. Rosie
Chapter 44
Rosie
I flip the page in the old photo album, trying not to look at the pictures. Grandma has me on the hunt for a specific photo she wants to show Mr. Blakey, but I’m tempted to toss all three of the albums I haven’t gone through into the back of my car and call it a day. The two of them can walk down memory road without me. The pile I’ve already gone through is strewn around the living room, and with each one, my mood tanks further.
I don’t even have to look through years of Marigold or my mother. Grandma Lily removed pictures of them years ago. Even without the visual reminder of my toxic family, I hate looking at photos.
One catches my eye anyway, and I pause to trace the outline of my Grandpa Rufus. A burst of grief hits my chest for my sweet grandpa. In the picture, my grandparents and I are at a Knotty Pines High School football game. It’s from before my sixteenth birthday, but it must have been close because I’m holding a camera bag. That was the year I filmed games for the team.
I study the girl in the picture, and another wave of grief hits. I’m in baggy jeans and a T-shirt, looking as if I wish I could be swallowed by the fabric. It doesn’t matter that I’m grown up or that, intellectually, I know the way my mother treated me after I “failed” to present was about her expectations rather than about who I was. I didn’t fail; I’m just me, but the overwhelming heartache hits my chest all the same.
Negative self-talk slams into me, years of my mother’s reminders that if I “try a little harder,” I’ll be pretty. Even now, I have trouble looking at pictures of myself. I never put them up and always skirt by them when they’re around. All the shame and self-loathing pop up when I see a candid shot of my body—the scars on my chest, my height, my size.
Most of the time, I feel cute and confident. I love my outfits and my tattoos. But seeing a photo from the wrong angle or time period can send me rearranging my view of myself in less than a second.
I force myself to study the picture and really look. All this time with the guys next door is making the past rear its ugly head, and maybe Grandma Lily is right—I just need to face it all, to ask myself what unfinished business I have so I can move on, because I want to truly be open with these men.
When I lean in and look at myself, I realize the girl in the photo is pretty, so much prettier than the things I used to tell myself. I want to reach through time and hug her, tell her we make it. My eyes sting, and a tear drops onto the plastic film. It frustrates me that I’m still crying over this, that I can’t just mark it off my list.
Trauma dealt with. Done and check. But those damn triggers never seem to remove themselves from the checklist completely.
The front door closes, and footsteps thud on the wooden floor. It’s probably Nash coming to hunt me down for dinner. I said I was only popping over here to grab something for my visit with Grandma Lily tomorrow, but the mess on the floor around me says otherwise.
Dane pops his head into the living room. “There you are.”
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” I say.
I’m not prepared for his handsome, commanding presence. I wipe my eyes and put the open album on the floor to study later before grabbing the discards and returning them to the shelf. Dane walks into the room, sucking up all the available air. He’s shirtless, his sculpted chest on display, and in a pair of bright-blue running shorts that are lethal for how they showcase the flexing muscles in his legs.
He melts my brain, rendering me completely incapable of thought or speech. An errant giggle slips out at the thought of what my sixteen-year-old self would say if I told her I was courting Dane Daniels. Even now, his presence causes my palms to sweat.
With the grace of a panther, he prowls into the living room and picks up the album. For a moment, I get caught up watching him. My throat turns dry, and the scars on my chest itch errantly.
Is it hot? Why is it so hot in here?
As a teen, I put Dane on a pedestal. For years, I worshipped him and fantasized about him. He was an escape, but that also made him untouchable. Sometimes when I’m around him now, I can still only see Dane the Heartthrob of Knotty Pines, the same beautiful boy who looked at me with pity. We can’t change the past, and I know in my head that I deserve to be with someone like him, but I don’t always feel confident, pretty, or cool enough to be with someone as magnetic and charming as Dane.
“Gods, you were cute,” Dane says. His warm voice draws me back to the moment and the realization that he’s looking at the photo album that houses some of my least favorite moments.
“It’s those good bones,” I blurt out my mother’s ingrained response sarcastically, wishing I could rewind time the moment the words leave my mouth.
“What does that mean?” Dane glances my way before his eyes flick back to the photo.
The urge to close the book and lock it away so he never sees it again rises inside me, a little vicious fox that can’t be contained. I snatch the book from his hands, probably looking like a total weirdo. “Something my mother used to say.”
Dane studies me, his brown eyes trying to see past all my walls.
“But what does it mean?” he asks softly.
I want to open up to him. I do. But I don’t know how to lower the gate. How do I say, You were a god to me, and I don’t always feel worthy, but yeah, cool, let’s have dinner ? I built these walls to protect myself, but I didn’t realize I couldn’t scale them on my own. I can only squirm under his perusal for so long before my legs force me to move.
“It meant I needed to try harder, but the truth was that with my mother, nothing was ever going to matter because I wasn’t an omega,” I say, shuffling toward the hall for a bag to put the albums in.
The scent of spicy apple cider follows me. “You aren’t a fixer-upper, Rosie. You don’t need to try to be any more than you are.”
His words hit me like an explosion in a dam, an avalanche thundering toward me. His hands wrap around me from behind, and he turns me into his chest as the first of the tears fall.
A purr rumbles. “You’re beautiful, and I’m sorry your family ever treated you like you weren’t precious.”
It’s embarrassing, the river coming down in full force, but I let it cleanse me as Dane’s strong arms hold me through the worst of it. He scoops me up and brings me to the couch, tucking me down on his lap. I bury my head in his chest and let his strong, steady presence hold me together until I can breathe.
Dane is quiet, and I appreciate that he lets the silence be gentle between us. He’s there, his hand smoothing up and down my back, his purr strong, but he doesn’t push.
I pull back from his embrace enough to look at him.
“Let me in. Tell me about it so I can understand.”
There are so many questions in his gaze that I don’t know how to answer, but I’m going to try.
“Ask me. It’s okay, but I don’t know how to get it out.” The tears threaten again, and my words come out choked.
He studies me, his thumb tracing my cheekbone before he nods. “How about I start, okay?”
I bite my lip, trying to hang on to the newest round of tears. They make Dane blurry, but his deep voice is strong.
“I didn’t know you went to the games, but I guess it makes sense with Coach R.” He points at a picture on the mantel, and I twist in his lap to see Grandpa Rufus holding a trophy. “Your grandpa was a prankster—strict about football but otherwise a total clown. My dad had almost drilled the love of football out of me by then, and there were a lot of days I wasn’t sure I could stomach the game. That team and your grandpa saved me from losing my love of it. I was sorry to hear when he passed.”
He’s given me an opening, and I take it gratefully. “Grandma took it hard. I came home for the funeral and never left.” I gather all my courage, deciding to be vulnerable, even though I sort of want to throw up. “Football saved you, but it also saved me. That night at the river, I meant it when I told you I liked the game.”
He twists one of my curls on his finger, a soft smile on his face. “Football, huh? I didn’t expect that.”
I shut my eyes tight and just go for it. “You were the reason I fell in love with the game.”
My skin is on fire under his gaze, and I rub my fingers idly over the sweatshirt covering my scars. It's a phantom sensation. They don't hurt, but the deep gashes I gave myself that night my cousin drugged me often itch. I remember the hallucinations, the ants crawling on my skin.
“My mother made me go to the football games, and I hated it. That was before I knew I was a beta, and there was all this pressure to perfume. Marigold, who had been my person forever, had bailed on me for your crowd…”
Dane’s hand on my hip squeezes. “I’m sorry things were so rough for you then.”
I use my sweatshirt sleeve to wipe my cheeks. “Things were rough, and I was struggling, but then I found football. Football was about the only thing that kept me sane for a while.”
“How? You just said you hated going?—”
“I hated how lonely and out of place I felt, and being at a crowded football stadium with no one to sit with but my grandma amplified it by ten,” I admit.
Dane nods in understanding, encouraging me to go on.
This is the hard part, the place in the story where I want to run, hide, or maybe puke. But he needs to know, so I keep talking. “This one day, the team’s film guy didn’t show, and I stepped in to help Grandpa. I didn’t know anything about the game or what to do, but I tried to follow the ball and saw you. You were driven. So in control. You gave me an anchor point.”
He shakes his head, clearly about to cut in, but I hold up my hand.
He quiets, waiting.
It feels like forever, and I have to look away to get it out. “I worshipped you, Dane. And that ridiculous obsession ended up bringing me hope. Learning about football and breaking down film gave me something in common with Grandpa Rufus, and instead of feeling miserable, I got this thing that I loved. But now you’re here, wanting to look at photos of my worst days, and…"
I can’t say it. I don’t want to say it.
“And?” he asks, his voice so gentle that it almost hurts.
“I’m me, and you’re you.” I shrug.
Dane’s deep voice is laced with confusion. “And to you, that means?”
I throw my hands in the air. “You’re Dane freaking Daniels, and I’m the mud girl that people used to call Busted Bella! If the town saw us together, people might faint! I know I almost do sometimes."
Dane wraps his arms around me in a hug so fierce I can barely breathe. I’m on pins and needles, wondering what the heck he thinks now that I’ve spilled my trauma all over the place.
“Sweetheart, I don’t give one fuck about what anyone thinks except you and our pack. But I promise you that I plan to work hard to earn that pedestal, okay? I want to be someone you look to, and I want to earn it. You’re perfect the way you are, and our pack will just have to keep saying it louder than everyone else until we’ve said it enough that you really hear it and believe. I promise you, Rosie, we’ll find a way to silence all the other voices.”
These pesky nonstop tears well up in my eyes again. “Okay, I’m gonna let you.”
“Good, sweetheart, because you deserve the best, and I plan to give it to you.”
There’s a pang in my chest because I feel his promise. It’s scary and big but so fucking awesome I don’t wanna blink. Please let it last forever.
“Show me. Make us real,” I plead.
I can feel how hard he is beneath me, and I crave the connection between us, want to know that we fit. Dane cups my chin, his eyes flashing with the glint of his alpha. He leans in, the soft kiss soothing all the leftover aches this conversation has brought up. I get lost in the kiss and how he makes me feel cherished and wanted until I’m squirming, wet, and desperate to get my hands on him.
Pulling away enough to get some room, I shuck my sweatshirt. Dane doesn’t let me get to my pants, his arms wrapping around me, fumbling to get my bra off as his lips trail over my skin. He sucks my nipple into his mouth, and I grind on his lap.
His lips trail down my neck, sucking a blooming mark on my skin. “Do you feel how hard I am? How much I want you?”
In answer, I reach for his mouth, desperate for him. The kiss is coaxing. He pounces, nips, and teases, begging me to follow until I give in to the chase.
He swings me around under his thick arm, flipping our positions in a move that leaves me breathless. It’s a scramble to get naked, mouths twisting, hands roaming, as we tug off clothes. When we’re both naked, he blankets me with his body, rolling his hips until his hard shaft slides through my slick center.
My breath hitches at the look in Dane’s eyes as he says, “One day, you’re gonna feel how into you I am, but for now, I’ll take pleasure in showing you.”
He hitches my leg over his hip, hauling me to him with a hungry rumble as he thrusts. He doesn’t take it easy, and for that I’m grateful. I’m slick for him, but the raw, blunt edge of taking him aches. It’s relentless, pushing out anything but Dane and me in this moment.
He grabs hold of my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “You drive me to rut, sweetheart.” Dane slams his hips, hitting deep, and I cry out, arching into the stretch. “I can barely keep my instincts at bay.”
The alpha flashes in his eyes, then he slants his lips over mine. The kiss is hungry, the rumble in his chest fueled by possessiveness that makes my toes curl.
His meaty hands dig into my hips. Gasping for breath, I pull away, but he just finds another spot to kiss, making his way down my body.
“You’re soft and sweet.” His teeth scrape against my neck before trailing to my breasts. "So fucking pretty and full of fire."
My nipples pucker, and he flicks his tongue around one before sucking the other into his mouth. It’s too much. He’s everywhere, slowly dragging out only to surge back in and grind deep. His fingers skim over my clit in a blur until I go off, gushing on his cock.
Broad hands wrap around the backs of my thighs, lifting me easily. He takes control then, letting loose in long strokes. The tips of his fingers tap my clit while he holds me in place. I grab hold of the back of the couch for purchase, loving the way he makes these raw, hungry sounds in his rock-bottom voice.
He’s lost to his pleasure, and I hang on, watching in rapture as this strong man falls apart for me. His fingers slip into my hair, fisting until my neck tilts in invitation. He slams his hips, his knot teasing my edges on each powerful thrust.
“Mine, my beautiful mate,” he says.
That word my fills my body with a fizzy sense of belonging. I want desperately to be his.
With a final thrust, he comes inside me. His muscles tense, his powerful body bowing. I rub my fingers across his cheek, a little dazed and a lot raw but feeling so wanted and safe that it aches.He braces his weight, blanketing me as he nuzzles my neck and keeps up these tiny thrusts. After a few moments of his harsh breathing, his purr kicks in.
“Gods, sweetheart, are you all right? Was I too rough?”
His weight is comforting, and when he pulls away to give me space, I fold my arms around his back and cling for a little longer. “Not at all. I liked it.”
He hoists me up, flipping us again so that he’s lying on the couch and I’m snuggled on his chest. His fingers find my hair, his other hand a steady presence on my back. That purr of his is dangerous, lulling me almost to sleep.
“Can I add something to the list?” I ask after a while, pulling back to look at his handsome face.
He nods, a soft smile on his lips.
“You’re really good at making people feel safe, even if your smolder makes me nervous.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He laughs then, a big one that does something funny in my chest, squeezing my heart.
He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist.
“We’re naked!” I cry, wondering what it is with the men of this pack always trying to give the whole neighborhood a show.
I try to scramble away from his hold, but his arms tighten. He grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around us, carrying us toward the back door. His lips never leave mine, and he somehow manages not to bang into anything. I pull back breathlessly to find us in the backyard.
“What number was my addition to the list?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair and tugging.
He smirks as he walks, his stride long. The cover of dusk hides us as he darts between our yards and heads toward the pack house back porch. “That was reason number forty-three, sweetheart, and that’s my lucky number.”