Page 92 of Wallflower

“You’re sweet.” The words slip out before I can stop them, shocking me.

He’s not sweet, he’s villainous.

Yeah, but it’s for me, and that makes all the difference.

“Are we still talking about murder?”

I shrug. The reality of it is…he is sweet. In his own twisted way, he’s offering me something I’ve never had before—support. Aside from our initial meeting, Ripley’s never done something I didn’t want or like, and because I’ve felt no reason to temper myself during our time together, he’s seen more of me than anyone before…and he returned.

The sting in my back only reminds me of what I survived. How I clawed my way under Richmond’s skin, and probably still linger there like an itch he can’t quite scratch. It lights me up, proves to myself how strong I am, how in the face of the worst shit I’ve ever experienced, I won’t break.

Gently, Rip presses his lips into mine. The kiss is soft, slow. “Tell me,” he breathes.

“I wanted to poison her slowly. Drag her death out the same way she made my life a living hell.”

“Oh, my Rose has thorns.”

I laugh. How could I not at a line like that? “I can’t believe you just said that, you corny fuck.”

His returning smirk would soak my panties if I was wearing any. Karson says they are pointless, and I understand why. Unless they are requested, they aren’t necessary.

“How would you do it?”

“Probably ricin, but I never got around to processing it.”

“And that would have her choking on her own blood?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“You’ve really thought this through, hey?”

“Kind of embarrassing when I think about it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have what it takes to kill someone.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s in there somewhere,” he says, laying his palm over my heart. “I can feel it.”

My heart flutters as his warm hand slips lower. “You’re certainly feeling something, and it’s not my ability to murder someone.”

I grip his wrist, pushing it down into the mattress as I crawl my body atop his.

His depthless eyes glaze over. “Rose,” he chokes brokenly. “St?—”

Pausing half way to his lips, I watch the air stutter in and out of his lungs. I think he’s trying to tell me to stop, but for some reason he can’t get the words out. Immediately, I release him, backing away to the opposite side of the bed.

A tremor wracks his muscular body as he turns from me, head hanging.

“Ripley? Are you okay?” He doesn’t answer and it winds my worry like a top, ready to spin out of control at any moment. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong,” I whisper, reaching out my hand to comfort, but thinking better of it.

His gaze whips to mine as he rolls back, rising up to crawl toward me.

I don’t dare move. Even breathing too loudly could set him off. I don’t know what happened, but I’m smart enough to recognize the first signs of an anxiety attack when I see them.

Those gorgeous pools of black bore into me, never wavering, not closing, when he lightly touches his lips to mine. It’s like he needs to see—has to know it’s me here with him.

Honestly, it both breaks and swells my heart.