Page 12 of Rum and Roses
She always liked my social media posts of me playing the violin. Now, I could play for her anytime. Maybe I could even convince her to dance while I played for her.
My sweet little ballerina.
I sat beside her, a glass of water in my hand, and gently lifted her head with my free hand. “Rosie… hey… hey… can you drink this?”
She whined.
“Please,” I held the glass to her lips.
She took a few small sips before pulling away.
“Good girl,” I whispered, sliding my hand through her hair. I placed the glass on the nightstand beside her. I shifted, taking her shoes off for her, and set them on the floor beside the bed. Followed by her jewelry which I rested in the box I had for. I took her phone, pocketing it for the time being. She would be more comfortable in the silk pajamas I had for her, but she was too drunk to change, and I certainly would not strip her of her clothes without consent. Absolutely not.
Sure, I just kidnapped the love of my life and locked her in my basement, but I had manners. I wasn’t some sort of monster. I was doing this for her own protection—she didn’t know what was good for her, and that was just another reason why she needed me. I couldn’t help how desperate I was to protect her. I just couldn’t stand seeing her hurting anymore.
Sooner or later she would realize that I would make her happy. All she needed to do was open her eyes to the truth.
I really wanted to see if her nipples were pierced, but I refused to look. I wanted her to feel safe, not like a prisoner.
I loved her. I loved her so much, and she just didn’t know it yet.
I tucked the blanket around her, feeling the softness of her skin. I brushed a strand of her hair from her face.
I knew it wouldn’t be easy. She wouldn’t understand my reasoning—that I was doing it out of love—not right away at least. More than likely, she’ll wake scared, confused, angry, and definitely hungover. But I will be patient. She just needed to see that I was the only one who truly cared about her, the only one who truly saw her, for her.
I leaned over, admiring her sleeping face, and whispered, “You’re safe now, Rosalie. You’re home.” I pressed a soft kiss against her forehead. It was a promise, a covenant, and a vow to her. Leaving her to sleep in peace, I went up the stairs, locking the door behind me. While she rested, I made myself a cup of tea. Worried that she wouldn’t just fight me, but that she might hate me. A soft breath left my lips, making my way back to the basement door. I leaned my back against the wood, sipping my tea.
I fully intended to spend the night outside her door, guarding her. I’d wait… as long as it took, until she saw my love and devotion.
8
Rosalie
My head felt like a war zone. Every throb, every pulse of pain echoed against my skull. The throbbing was accompanied by an overwhelming sensation of nausea, a cruel reminder of last night’s indulgence. My vision was blurry when I first opened my eyes before resolving into a soft, muted space. I was lying in a bed, one that was far comfier than my own, surrounded by pillows and blankets.
Where am I?
The last thing I remember last night was Liam and then—nothing.
Panic, raw and immediate, clawed at my throat. I sat up, my stomach lurching. The room began to spin; I closed my eyes, trying to choke the nausea back down. After a few moments, it became bearable again, and when I scanned my surroundings, I realized that this–this was not my bedroom. It appeared to be a renovated basement. I was in a bed in the corner, and a nightstand was beside me. On the other side was an open door to a bathroom. There was a TV, a sofa, a coffee table—I couldn’t see all of the other side of the room from where I was but I could see the mirrors that hung on the wall from floor to ceiling, and whatappeared to be a practice floor with bars. Intended for ballet. Everything was neat, meticulously organized and to my taste.
A sense of dread, cold, suffocating dread washed over me.
Where the fuck am I?!
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Rushing towards the staircase, I was about to run up it when at the top, with the door closed behind him and presumably locked, was him. Holding a tray of what appeared to be breakfast in his hands. I couldn’t make out his face from the darkness of the stairs, but by how tall he was, I knew it was a man.
My kidnapper.
Tears welled in my eyes. “Please let me go home,” I begged. Panicking, I looked for anything that I could use as a weapon. I grabbed the lamp from the nightstand, yanking it out of the socket, holding it up, ready to throw it at him. “Let me go!” I screamed with tears in my eyes. I threw the lamp, but he managed to dodge it despite carrying a tray of food.
This can’t be happening, this can’t possibly be happening.
“Rosalie?” His voice was soft. Stepping into the light, his expression was a blend of concern and something I couldn’t quite decipher. His dark curls were disheveled, and his eyes were clouded with a mixture of anxiety and… tenderness.
What the fuck.
I stared at him. He was the last person I expected to see. I backed against the wall, trying to keep the distance between us as far as possible.
