Chapter Twenty-Two
Avery
The quiet hum of the house wraps around me like a comforting blanket as I close the bathroom door behind me. For the first time today, I’m alone, and as much as I adore their company—their laughter, their teasing, their constant warmth—I need this. A moment to breathe. A moment to think.
The day has been a whirlwind, boomeranging me from moments of pure joy to flashes of anxiety, and then back again. My dad’s visit was a high point, his approval of our unconventional relationship lighting a fire of happiness in my chest. But even with his blessing, there’s a part of me that can’t quiet the questions swirling in my mind.
I turn on the faucet, letting the warm water rush into the tub. As steam begins to rise, I strip out of my clothes, my movements slow and deliberate, as though shedding the weight of the day along with the fabric. I stare at the water, watching it swirl as I step in, sinking down until the heat envelops me.
It’s in this quiet space, the sounds of the water lapping at the edges of the tub, that my thoughts begin to unravel.
How is this going to work?
The question hits me like a stone dropping into the water, rippling through every doubt I’ve been pushing aside. They all lead such extraordinary lives—high-profile, fast-paced, and full of responsibilities that demand their attention. Kamden’s restaurants. Jaxton’s acting career. Liam and Lennox’s constant travel for modeling and endorsements. It’s a lot.
And then there’s me. My bakery, my landscaping business, my dad. My world is here, rooted and steady. I’m proud of what I’ve built, but it feels so small in comparison to the orbit of their lives.
I trail my fingers through the water, my gaze distant as the thoughts continue to swirl. How do we find time for us when they’re always moving? How do I fit into a life that’s so vastly different from my own?
I tilt my head back, letting it rest against the cool porcelain of the tub. It’s not just about logistics, though that’s a big part of it. It’s about the fear creeping in at the edges of my heart—the fear of being left behind. Of becoming an afterthought in the chaos of their schedules.
And yet, even as the doubts gnaw at me, there’s another part of me that feels tethered to them in a way I can’t explain. They’ve given me a kind of love I never imagined possible, one that’s messy and overwhelming but also achingly beautiful.
The water ripples as I lift my leg, absently tracing patterns on the surface with my toe. I think about the way Jaxton looks at me, like I’m the only person in the room. The way Kamden’s steady presence makes me feel safe, grounded. The way Liam’s laughter lights up even my roughest days. The way Lennox’s quiet strength makes me feel seen.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I remember how they promised earlier today that we’d figure it out, one day at a time. But promises are easier said than kept when life pulls in so many directions.
I sigh, dipping my hands into the water and letting it drip through my fingers. As much as I want to believe we can make it work, I can’t ignore the challenges ahead.
The sound of my phone vibrating on the counter pulls me out of my thoughts. I lean over the edge of the tub, wiping my hand on a towel before grabbing it. It’s a message from Jaxton in our group chat.
Jax: Kitten, you okay? Need anything?
I smile softly, typing back a quick reply.
Me: I’m fine, just taking a bath. Don’t worry about me.
A reply comes almost instantly.
Jax: Always worrying about you. Let us know when you’re ready for bed. Sweet dreams, baby.
I chuckle, setting the phone back down. Even from afar, they have a way of making me feel cared for, connected.
Maybe that’s the key—leaning into what we have, trusting that the love between us is strong enough to withstand the challenges. It’s not going to be easy, but nothing worth having ever is.
I sink deeper into the water, closing my eyes as the warmth soothes my tired muscles. For now, I’ll focus on this moment, on the love we’ve built, and trust that the rest will fall into place. One day at a time.
The bath leaves me feeling rejuvenated, my earlier exhaustion now reduced to bearable. I slip into my loungewear with the kind of speed that could rival Clark Kent in a phone booth turning into Superman—though in my case, I’m more of a couch-bum superhero. As soon as I’m dressed, a loud bang reverberates through the house, immediately followed by the sharp chime of the doorbell.
I freeze mid-step, glancing at the clock. It’s past eight. Who’s stopping by this late? My brows knit together as I grab my phone on the way to the door, swiping at the screen to check for a missed call or text that might explain who’s standing on the other side. Nothing. The blank screen offers no clues.
The doorbell rings again, insistent this time, making my heart rate spike. My gaze flickers to the door, unease prickling along my skin. I swallow hard and take a step closer, my voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in my chest.
“Who’s there?”
I call out, my hand resting on the doorknob but not turning it. Mental note: install a peephole first thing tomorrow.
There’s no response, just silence—and then another loud buzz. My heart pounds harder. “Yeah, I said, who’s there?”
My voice is firmer now, carrying more irritation than fear, though the hairs on my arms refuse to settle.
The doorbell rings again, echoing through the house, each chime feeling like a dare. Irritation takes over, drowning out the hesitation as I grab the doorknob and yank it open, my mouth ready to deliver a piece of my mind.
But the doorway is empty.
My rant dies on my lips as I step onto the porch, peering left and right. The yard is empty, quiet except for the faint chirp of crickets. Then I spot them—a massive bouquet of white roses sitting on my welcome mat.
My irritation melts away in an instant, replaced by a warmth that spreads through my chest. I scoop up the flowers, their delicate fragrance washing over me, the perfect pick-me-up after such a busy day.
I carry the bouquet inside, the soft fragrance wrapping around me like a warm hug. These roses are stunning—full, bright, and practically glowing under the kitchen lights. Setting them gently on the counter, I glance over at the older arrangement on the table. The once-vibrant petals have started to wilt, their edges curling and fading to a dull brown.
“Time for a replacement,”
I murmur, carefully gathering the old flowers and tossing them into the trash.
Once the vase is fresh and ready, I fluff the new roses, spreading their petals and stems to give them the perfect balance. It’s impossible not to smile as I arrange them, their beauty brightening up the entire kitchen. These guys—my guys—they just get me.
With the bouquet finally settled, I grab my phone from the counter and open our group chat. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a second, the smile on my face growing wider as I think about how much effort they’ve put into surprising me over the past few months. The secret notes and random flowers left around have made every day feel special since our first date.
I start typing, my heart full of affection.
Me: Thank you for the gorgeous flowers, guys! I’m seriously spoiled. I’ve loved every single note, the flowers, everything. You have all made me feel so special since day one, and I’m pretty sure you’re trying to ruin me for anyone else.
I press send, the message accompanied by a string of heart emojis, and set the phone back down.
As I lean down to smell the roses again, a bright red smear on the pristine petals—stark against the pure white—catches my attention.
Frowning, I reach out, brushing my thumb against one of the blemished petals. It comes away red—fresh, not dried. Blood.
“Must’ve pricked themselves on the thorns,”
I murmur to myself, picturing some poor delivery driver rushing to drop off the bouquet after an unfortunate accident. No wonder they were so impatient at the door.
I carefully inspect the petals, wiping away the small streaks of red until the flowers are spotless again. Once satisfied, I step back to admire the arrangement, the sight of the roses filling me with gratitude. These guys... they always seem to know how to make me feel special.
As I head to the fridge in search of a snack, the little card tucked into the bouquet catches my eye. I pluck the card free from its envelope, expecting one of their silly, sweet poems.
Roses are red, violets are blue, you took them from me. Now I’m coming for you.
My stomach knots, the initial warmth of excitement replaced by a cold dread that crawls up my spine like icy fingers.
In that moment, the notes from the past weeks flash through my mind like a reel on repeat.
What started as seemingly innocent poems has taken a darker turn with each passing message, their tone growing more unsettling.
What once felt playful now feels sinister, each line laced with a deeper malice I hadn’t fully recognized until now.
And now, this note—a direct threat—is the culmination of all those warnings I ignored.
My stomach knots as the realization hits: this wasn’t random.
It was planned. My guys would never—never—send me something that feels like a threat.
I glance back at the bouquet of roses, their pristine beauty now overshadowed by the sinister message etched into the card.
The room feels darker somehow, the shadows in the corners stretching farther than they should.
My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it in my ears.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake the unease sinking its claws into me.
It’s probably a stupid prank.
Some delivery mix-up.
Something easily explained.
I’m mid-thought when the doorbell rings again, jolting me so hard I fling the notecard across the room.
My stomach flips, a mix of anxiety and anticipation bubbles up as goosebumps ripple across my skin.
The knock that follows is sharp, firm, and way too deliberate for my liking.
I take a hesitant step toward the door, my palms clammy as I call out, “Who is it?”
“Delivery!”
a voice shouts from the other side, and for a moment, my racing heart slows. My hackles lower.
I open the door cautiously, half-hidden behind it, only to be met with another massive bouquet of white roses, nearly identical to the first. The delivery driver holding them seems almost swallowed by the arrangement, the blooms spilling over in all directions.
“Uh, thanks—”
I start, but before I can finish, the bouquet is shoved toward me with no warning. The roses stab into my face, the thorns catching on my skin and tangling in my hair.
“Ah! Ow, shit!”
I yelp, stumbling back. My hands fly to my face, coming away with streaks of blood where the thorns have left their mark. Crimson smears across the white petals, and for the second time tonight, roses are stained with something sinister.
As I pull back to catch my breath and detangle myself, the delivery person says nothing—doesn’t even apologize. The front door is still open, the cool night air seeping into the house, when a voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
“Roses are red, violets are blue, you’re not going to survive what I do to you.”
My blood turns to ice.
Her smirk is wicked, sharp enough to cut, and her eyes blaze with pure malice. My breath catches in my throat as I freeze, my mind struggling to process the nightmare standing before me.
Sarah.
I never expected to see her again—never wanted to see her again. But there she is, inches away, her face partially obscured by the tangle of roses she shoved at me, their thorns still biting into my skin. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out every rational thought as the sick realization washes over me.
She planned this.
This isn’t some twisted coincidence. The cryptic notes, the blood-stained petals, the sense of unease creeping into my life—it was all her.
A slow, chilling smile spreads across her lips, as if she’s savoring my fear, drinking in the shock painting my features.
“Miss me?”
she purrs.
“Sarah,”
I spit, my voice shaking with equal parts fear and fury. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She tilts her head, feigning disappointment, her smirk only widening. “Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?”
I glance over my shoulder toward the living room, mapping out a route of escape, but my hair is still tangled in the thorny bouquet, slowing me down.
Sarah notices my hesitation, her laugh low and chilling. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Before I can react, she lunges.
Her body crashes into mine, her weight knocking the breath from my lungs as her legs coil around my back like a parasite sinking its hooks into its host. My scream barely makes it past my lips before her hand clamps down, smothering the sound with something damp and suffocating.
The sharp, chemical sting floods my senses, burning down my throat and searing into my lungs. I instinctively hold my breath, twisting violently, trying to shake her loose, but she’s stronger than she should be. Desperation claws at my chest as I thrash, my body bucking against hers, but her grip only tightens, iron-clad and merciless.
My hands scramble for anything—her wrist, her hair—something to use as leverage, but instead, my fingers catch on the thorny stems of the roses still tangled in my hair. The brittle stems snap and twist, their thorns dragging across my scalp, tiny pinpricks of pain flaring across my skin as petals crumble around me.
I try to claw at them, to free myself, but my arms are losing their strength. My muscles turn to lead, heavy and unresponsive, my movements sluggish, like I’m wading through thick, sinking mud. My knees buckle. The world tilts. The floor slams into me, my cheek hitting the hardwood with a dull crack, but the pain is distant, muffled, like it belongs to someone else.
The roses—those tainted roses—scatter around me as I fall, their delicate petals fluttering down in a ghostly slow-motion dance. They should be beautiful, pristine, innocent. But instead, they look wrong. Sinister. Their once-pure white petals are stained now, smudged with streaks of crimson from where the thorns pricked my skin. They surround me like a twisted offering, a bed of beauty masking something darker.
Through the thick haze dragging me under, I hear her shift beside me.
Sarah crouches low, her breath warm against my ear, her fingers trailing idly through my hair, untangling the strands caught in the roses with a gentleness that feels disturbingly intimate.
A sharp chime cuts through the fog—my phone. Texts. Urgent. Insistent. Someone is trying to reach me, trying to break through this nightmare.
But it’s too late.
The sound fades. Everything fades.
And as the last wisps of light disappear, swallowed by the crushing weight of darkness, her voice is the only thing that lingers.
“Roses are red… violets are blue…”
Thank you so much!