Slept On My Bed

Roselia would die for Ronald. Ronald would kill for his little sister. Together, they were the shining sibling of Pack Fiore, the adoration and jealousy of every parent. The second Roselia was born, Ronald was the first to hold her as their Papa wailed over their Mother's lifeless body. Ronald was her first skin-to-skin contact. He was practically a second father to her, despite being only four years older.

Overprotective. Overbearing. Affectionate. If Ronald was present, so was Roselia. Their childhoods were too heavily entwined.

"Leave." Roselia lowered her hand, her palm burning with the impact, but the pain was nothing compared to her heart. She couldn't stomach the sight of him without swallowing the guilt associated with him. And he couldn't stare at her for longer than a second before regret filled his vision.

Ronald dropped his head. "Rosie."

"Go." Roselia pointed a furious finger towards the door, trembling and sniffling.

"I'm sorry, Rosie, I've always been, and I always will be." Ronald kept his distance, watching as she hugged herself. She used to embrace him tightly, crying into his shoulders. For a while, he was the only one able to comfort her. Now, he was the source of her nightmares. "It's my fault, I'm sorry—"

"Get out!" Roselia screamed, her throat stinging with the impact. 

The first time Roselia's ever screamed at Ronald in three years. The last time such a hoarse, animalistic sound escaped her mouth was three years ago. When everything fell apart. When her dress was soaked red. When gun smoke filled her nose. When she hugged the fallen body of her first love.

The first man to break Roselia's heart. And the second? Ronald. The third? Cecil. 

All the men that failed Roselia were the ones closest to her. Sworn to protect her. Promised to cherish her. Yet, there were shackles on her neck, wrists, and ankles because of them. Weighing her down. Choking her. Drowning her.

"I'm sorry," Ronald whispered, his mouth quivering upon laying a final glance at her. 

Roselia lacked life and happiness. The ghost of a little girl that used to sit upon his back as he ran through the forest in his wolf form, and her giggles filled the sunkissed air.

"I will always be sorry, Rosie," Ronald confessed.

Ronald took her hand, squeezed it, and slipped a folded piece of paper. Roselia took it, but her expression remained—unforgiving. He dropped his gaze, his attention lingering on her necklace. 

"I've always wondered who gave such inexpensive jewelry to such a priceless woman," Ronald dryly commented. "Will you tell me, the next time I see you?"

Noah's brows shot up at the realization. The necklace was not from her brother. 

"I never want to see you again, Ronald."

Ronald revealed a bitter smile of acceptance. "It may be my fault, Rosie, but you are to blame. Do not forget it."

- - - - -

Roselia took a shower to wash the sins of their encounter. She took the piece of paper with her, hoping to destroy the ink. But the first droplet that landed on the note was not from the shower.

'If you need to escape, you know how to reach me. I will take you to safety, I promise.'

Roselia crumbled the note and ripped it into pieces, washing it down the drain. No one would read it besides her. She wasn't stupid. Cecil might've protected Ronald three years ago, but he was just a man without a proper title. He was just the Alpha's son. Until Ronald becomes Alpha Fiore, he'd have no real power. No real claim.

Ronald would not be able to protect Roselia from Alpha Kerpan. He failed her once. He'd do it again.

There was not a single corner of this world that Roselia could run to. Nowhere that she'd be safe.

"Where would I even go?" Roselia was certain her father would never let her set foot into Fiore Pack. She'd never lay eyes on her childhood bedroom or taste the food she grew up with. 

Cecil could return Roselia to Cruden.

Cecil had abandoned Roselia once. Would he do it again?

Roselia exited the shower, dripping wet. She was frozen by the bathroom door, the blood draining from her face. Her stomach turned cold, dropping to her feet. There he was, sitting like a king on the edge of her vanity. He ran his thumb on a pearl necklace, one of the many untouched gifts from him.

"How long is this silent war going to be waged for?" Cruden's tone was cruel and twisted. Slow and solemn, he dragged his eyes from her gift-filled vanity to her face. 

Blue. 

Molten silver kept her in place. Burning hot. Trailing from her shaking shoulders to the water droplets sliding down her bare arms and legs, almost unwillingly. 

Cruden Tiberias was the embodiment of cold-cut perfection, the wisp of his wild hair brushing upon the two faint scars running on his left eyebrow, resembling claw marks. His eyes dropped, almost reluctantly onto her bare feet. His gaze lazily slid back up to her towel, then brushed higher to her breast, her throat and paused.

"Well?" Cruden muttered.

Roselia itched to slap a hand over the spot her shoulder met her neck. He could see the Kerpan son's mark, a glaring "K" wrapped by a crescent moon. She instinctively pulled her hair over her collarbone, the tips hitting her belly button. 

Her heart skipped. Her blood pounded and rushed in her veins, her fingers trembling. 

"You ignored me first," Roselia accused. "You left for days on end. Pretended I wasn't here and refused to even speak of what happened."

"I saved your life," Cruden deadpanned. 

"You didn't care if I lived or died."

Cruden scoffed. His tensed shoulders relaxed the slightest. He wasn't amused. He was in disbelief. Wordlessly, he ran a hand through his hair, gripping the ends and peered at her through heavy lids.

"If I didn't care, I wouldn't have my men shoot him dead. If I didn't care, it would've been your blood on the grass, not his. Your skull, not his." Cruden tilted his head. 

"So you care about me?" Roselia tried to not be hopeful.

"You are my responsibility."

That was not a proper response. 

"Whether or not I care about you doesn't matter. You are my wife. You are my responsibility. I am to take care of you for the rest of my life."

A burden. That was what Roselia was. She knew it from a mile away, her heart shriveling and her chest growing cold with the knowledge. She pressed her lips together, her attention lingering on his cheek. 

"You have blood on you again," Roselia muttered.

Cruden paused. He ran a thumb on his face, rough and uncaring. He glanced down. "All because of you."

"Me?" Roselia repeated.

"Well, someone had to find out who sent Lennon after you." Cruden straightened, and she pressed herself tighter against the bathroom door.

Cruden peered at her. Emotionless. "You think I'd assault my own wife in her room?"

"If not my room, then where? Yours?" Roselia squeezed out.

Cruden stared at her like she was stupid. Incredulous, even. "No other woman besides you has set foot in my bedroom, much less slept on my bed."

Roselia was appalled by the knowledge. Was he lying? She met his steel-cut glare. He was telling the truth. She was floored by the revelation, and couldn't help herself from blurting out the first question that came to her mind.

"Cruden, are you a virgin?"