He brackets an arm across my limbs, stalking towards the living room where Kairo and Maddox are seated. Both men look up when Roman trudges past. Kairo’s face lights up while Maddox lifts a brow.
Roman sets me down in front of them, turning me to face them as my cheeks catch fire with a raging blush. “She was just about to leave without us.”
Kairo tuts. “Now, you know better than that, Thorn.”
I bury my face in my hands. “I don’t have time for this! I have twenty minutes to get there!”
“I’ll drive,” Maddox says as he closes the book he was reading and stands. We make eye contact, and his gaze darkens. He’s remembering last night. I just know he is.
I shift slightly, a war waging in my head over the dynamic that’s happening between all four of us. I stayed up for most of the night, tossing and turning as I mulled it all over in my head.
I’m attracted to them, and I shouldn’t be. Don’t even get me started on the fact that I can’t seem to focus my attention down to a single one of them. All three are like a beacon to me, and I don’t know why.
I hate them.
What they put me through was cruel, and I shouldn’t feel anything besides disgust. Yet my body responds as if my anger is moot, and it pisses me off.
They know nothing about me and what it took to get me here. They have no idea what I still have a hard time getting over—the trauma that’s embedded in me and the way it affects me. It’s why I don’t want them to go to this appointment. They’re going to see what I’m like afterwards, and the thought terrifies me.
What if they use my vulnerability against me again?
What if they take advantage and shunt me right into aday terror I can’t escape? My triggers have become manageable over the years, but it doesn’t erase the trauma. Nothing ever will, and if they see that…
No. I have to go.
I don’t have the time to sit here and think about the possibilities. I need to get there as soon as possible.
I feel defeated and numb as I head towards the door. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rosalie
“You seem distracted,” Mrs. Early comments, tapping her pencil on her notepad. “Is something wrong, Rose?”
Yeah. I’m being kept on a damn leash by my bodyguards.
I look around my therapist’s private office, taking note of all the gentle ways she arranged things to make a patient comfortable—the soft, plush couch beneath me, the mundane chair she’s seated in across from me as if we’re two friends out to dinner rather than in the middle of my weekly session, and the abundance of music records and awards lining her shelf. It’s no secret she’s big in California for her work, which she often does with celebrities. Despite being thrust into the limelight, she’s down to earth and one of the only therapists I enjoyed speaking with when I first had to make the switch.
My only problem is that my bodyguards are seated outside in her waiting room. They’ve been quiet since we arrived, and didn’t ask questions.
I don’t know if I’m thankful for that or even more nervous than when we pulled up to the building with the obvious plaque near the front door, labeling it a therapist’s office.
I sigh. “Yeah. Something really big happened this week.” I go into detail, spilling my guts about the whole break-in and how the three men of my past showed up on my doorstep. I voice my fears and concerns, not afraid to get down to the root of it all, while Mrs. Early listens.
“That is quite a bit to unpack,” she nods. “And how are you feeling now? Are you uncomfortable with them being in your space?”
“I…” I lift a hand to my bicep, that old response to pick at my skin returning. Darkness slowly shrouds around me as I’m transported back in time. All of the torture and embarrassment are suffocating to think about, but I know I won’t be able to pull myself out of it for a while. “I don’t know…”
“You can be truthful with me, Rose.” Mrs. Early says softly. “How do they make you feel?”
My stomach twists as all of those memories play like a horrid flashback I’m forced to sit through. Going to school and being outcast and beaten, then going home for something far worse awaiting me, is a festering scar that won’t go away. No matter how much I heal, it’s always there.
I finally look up at my therapist, my mouth filling with saliva as I swallow back the rising bile in my throat. “They make mesick.”
The trip back home is quiet, and I don’t try to break the tense silence that blankets the SUV. I can’t escape my own head, and I just want to get away from them.
I need to shower.
