“No,” I whisper. “No, I won’t go with you. Please, please, you don’t have to do this,” I beg. “No, no, no…”
“No!” I shout, my throat sore and clogged with tears. My mind is hazy, not quite sure what’s going on or where I am. One second I was begging for my life, and then I blink and I’m surrounded by darkness and cool, comforting sheets.
“You’re safe,” someone says, tugging at the corners of my nightmare. “I’m right here. I won’t let anyone find you,” the voice says.
Something rattles loose in my brain. After days on the run, stealing food when I could, and finding a new hiding spot every night, I collapsed into a heap on the side of an empty highway, ready to give up. That’s when my tall, tatted savior scooped me up and put me on the back of his bike.
I gasp as my eyes fly open.
“You’re safe,” he says again. I notice the man is kneeling on the bed next to me, a concerned look woven into his green eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know,” I choke out before tears flood my vision. “I-I remember.”
His hand is large, warm, and steady as he reaches out, hovering just an inch from my face. He waits, giving me the choice to pull away, but I don't. I lean into his palm, the rough callouses of his skin feeling like a mountain of safety against my cheek. I’ve spent my whole life being handled, shoved, grabbed, and manipulated, but Rogue? Rogueholdsme.
"I've got you, sweet girl," he rumbles, his voice a low vibration that settles the frantic beating of my heart. "Nightmare's over. You're in my house. My bed. Nothing is getting through that door to get to you. I promise you that on my life."
I believe him. It’s crazy, it’s reckless, and it goes against every survival instinct I’ve honed over my twenty-one years, but I believe him. He’s a giant of a man, smelling of leather and something deep and woodsy, and yet he’s looking at me like I’m made of glass.
"Can you..." I swallow hard, my throat still tight. "Can you stay? Just until I fall back asleep?"
He doesn't hesitate. He moves with a surprising grace for a man his size, shucking his boots and sliding onto the mattress next to me. He doesn't try to get under the covers, staying on top of the duvet, but he opens his arm in a silent invitation. I don't think; I just move. I crawl into his side, my head finding the perfect notch in his shoulder.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, still hesitant to touch me.
“I don’t think I’m ready,” I murmur, hoping I’m not disappointing him.
“That’s okay, angel. We’ll take everything at your pace. It’s your story. You’re in control here.”
His words mean more than he could possibly know. I’ve never been in control of anything, from ending up in foster care after my mother overdosed to aging out of the system and having zero employment opportunities. My life has been a snowball effect of the terrible choices the adults in my life made. I don’t quite believe what Rogue is telling me, but he makes me want to try.
Rogue senses my intense emotion and wraps his arm around me, heavy and protective, tucking me into the solid heat of his body. For the first time since Heath lured me away with lies of a better life, the tension leaves my muscles. I’m surrounded by Rogue, cocooned in his strength, and the darkness of the room no longer feels like a place where monsters hide. It feels like a sanctuary.
I wakeup before the sun is fully up, the room bathed in the soft, gray light of dawn. Rogue’s eyes are sealed shut and he has the barest hint of a smile on his soft-looking lips. My heart squeezesup at the sight. Not of fear, but of a strange, fluttering hope I don't know what to do with.
I thought maybe I had made up Rogue’s sexy, god-like stature, but no, he’s still very much the Adonis with tattoos and unruly hair I remember. He looks so peaceful, I don’t want to disturb him just because I have the inability to sleep in.
I struggle out of bed, my body aching in places I’d forgotten about. The soft gray sweatpants and black t-shirt he left outside the shower last night that smell exactly like Rogue. Surprisingly, they swallow my frame, which isn’t something I’m used to as a plus-sized girl. I have to roll up the waistband of the pants three times just to keep them from tripping me.
I wander out of the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. Rogue’s house is like him: sturdy, functional, and a little rough around the edges. There’s a stack of mail and some scrap paper on a desk in the corner of the living room. Without thinking, my fingers reach for a piece of paper. It’s an old habit, a way to keep my hands busy so my mind doesn't spiral.
I fold. Crease. Tuck.
I don't even have to look as a perfect paper lily takes shape. I set it on the coffee table. Then I make another. And another. I move through the house, leaving a trail of paper flowers on the kitchen counter, the windowsill, the mantle. It’s my way of saying thank you for the water, the shower, and the soul-deep safety.
I’m halfway through a complex rose when the bedroom door down the hall flies open with a bang.
"Melodie!"
Rogue storms out, his hair wild, his chest bare and covered in intricate tattoos. His eyes are wide, scanning the room like a predator looking for a lost cub. He looks like a beast of a man ready to tear the world apart.
I instinctively duck behind the kitchen island, my breath hitching.
He stops dead when he sees the top of my head peeking over the granite. The feral light in his eyes vanishes instantly, replaced by a crushing wave of remorse. He drops to his knees right there in the middle of the hallway, his head hanging.
"Fuck. Mel, I'm sorry," he says, his voice cracked and raw. "I woke up and the bed was cold. I thought... I thought you’d run away or were taken in the night. I thought I'd lost you before I even really had you."
He looks so defeated, his dirty blonde hair falling in his eyes to cover his shame. My fear evaporates the longer I look at him. I walk around the counter and slowly approach the giant of a man. I reach out a hand, and he takes it like it’s a lifeline, pressing my knuckles to his forehead.
