Always chosen my autonomy over his instincts.
After all this time, I finally understand the difference between protection and control.
And Rowan has never confused the two. The relief at being able to stop questioning every decision allows me to pass out, confident I can trust Rowan to keep my sister and me safe.
19
The bedroom door opens, and Rowan appears with a tray balanced in his hands. The rich aroma of bacon and coffee fills the air, and my stomach clenches with hunger I hadn’t paid attention to.
“Morning, precious.” His bare feet pad across the plush carpet as he approaches. “Thought you might need sustenance.”
I push myself into a sitting position, wincing as muscles pull in places that remind me of how thoroughly I was taken. The sheet falls to my waist, exposing the constellation of marks across my chest and shoulders.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I rasp, throat raw from sounds I only half-remember.
Rowan sets the tray across my lap. The porcelain plate holds fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon cooked to perfect crispness, toast with real butter melting into each slice, and fresh berries glistening with moisture.
I’ve come a long way from rice and beans for breakfast and skipped meals between jobs.
“Let me take care of you.” His fingers brush through my tangled hair, tucking a strand behind my ear.
I should resist. Should remind him that I can feed myself. I only had my Heat. It didn’t turn me into an invalid. I’ve functioned at peak condition under far worse conditions. But Rowan wants to spoil me, and since we’re alone with no one around to witness the weakness, I let him.
Rowan sits on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, and lifts a forkful of eggs to my lips. “Open.”
The eggs melt in my mouth, seasoned to perfection, and a small sound of pure pleasure escapes me.
“Good?” His thumb traces my bottom lip, catching a crumb.
I respond by opening my mouth for another bite.
Rowan alternates between feeding me and sipping from the coffee mug he brought for himself. Theberries burst with sweetness, the bacon offers salt and smoke, and the toast provides substance. My body accepts each offering, replenishing strength that has been depleted by days of Heat-driven madness.
Between bites, I study Rowan’s profile. His amber eyes catch the morning light, turning almost gold, and the stubble along his jaw has grown thicker, almost a beard now after days without shaving.
It suits him.
“How did you come to own the Blue Note?” The question rises unprompted.
Rowan pauses, fork suspended between the plate and my mouth. “You want to learn more about me?”
I purse my lips in annoyance at how pleased he appears by my question. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“So you did. And it only took you three months to do it.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.” I accept the bite he offers, the sweetness of berries filling my mouth.
His lips curve upward. “No, I do. I’m glad you’re curious about the rest of me.”
He sets the fork down as he considers where to start. “My father’s friend owned it before me. Victor Sullivan. He took me in after juvie when my family died.”
“You were in juvenile detention?” I’ve always understood Rowan operates in gray areas, but this detail surprises me.
“Two and a half years.” His fingers trace patterns on the sheet beside my leg. “Started at fourteen. Armed robbery. I was angry, stupid, and running with the wrong crowd after my mother died. It wouldn’t have been so long, but one of the other guys shot the owner.”
I can picture a younger Rowan, rage and grief channeled into violence, too smart for his own good.
“Victor visited me inside. He was a friend of my father’s from the old neighborhood.” Rowan lifts the mug to his lips, throat working. “When I got out, my father was gone, too. Cancer. Victor gave me a place to stay and a job at the bar. He taught me how the business worked. Both kinds.”
