47

Camila

In the sunlight, the rose looks alive. I know it isn’t. It hasn’t been for some time. But with each little adjustment of it on my shirt collar, I have to stop and look closely before I remind myself that I’m seeing things.

Please, give me strength.

I turn the brooch once more—from my right side to the left. It doesn’t matter where I put it; I don’t plan to wear it out of my room. At this point, I’m simply delaying what I must do.

I thought about it all night, tossing and turning until my blankets were sweaty. My anger at Asher made it easy to put distance between us. I strolled down the hall with my head held high, confident I was doing the right thing by sleeping in different rooms.

Yet, when I got to my bedroom and the late hours crept in, I realized how awful it was to be alone. Asher had become something solid in this place. Without his warmth … the gentle patter of his heart under my arm as we cuddled … I was forced to remember where I was.

What I was.

His prisoner.

It’s h