My father’s words replay in my head, looping like a broken record, as they invade their way through every fragile piece of confidence I had managed to build.
Useless. Worthless. A disappointment.
It shouldn’t hurt anymore.
But tonight, it does.
The one person who ever made me believe differently is gone.
A fresh sob racks through my body, and I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood. I hate crying, I hate feeling this weak. I miss the one person who would pull me out of my head, comfort me through my self-doubt, and just made me feel seen in this world.
I miss her.
"You shine all on your own, mija. Don’t you ever forget that, believe in yourself.”
Her warm voice echoes in my head, full of the kind of love I haven’t felt since she left this world. My mother was the only person who ever saw me for who I was. Who made me feellovedeven when I didn’t deserve it.
I let out a shaky breath and press my fingers to my temples, my tears staining the sheets beneath me. I miss my mom so fucking much, the need to just hear her voice again, and for her to pull me into one of those hugs that made me feel like I could take on the whole world. I want her to tell me that I’m not a failure.
I don’t know how long I stay on the floor, long enough for the tears to dry on my face, leaving my skin tight and raw. The ache in my chest settles into something dull and familiar.
Anxiety and panic attacks are new to me; they came on after her death, and learning how to navigate through them is something I am still trying to manage every day. It’s so fucking hard.
My legs are weak as I push myself to stand. The entirety of my body feels heavy, weighed down by the physical and mental exhaustion. I inch toward the dresser and search through the expensive fabrics until I find my lavender silk pajama shorts and matching cami. My hands are still shaky as I change, wiping at the mess on my face like that’s enough to fix it.
I smooth my hair back in the mirror and slap on a sheet mask. Pretending to care about my skin is easier than admitting how broken I actually feel.
I need a distraction, something to pull me out of my head before I drown in it. The house is still as I slip into the hallway, the wooden floor cool against my bare feet.
I creep downstairs, expecting the living room to be empty. Maybe a dark couch to curl up on, and a trashy reality show to numb the chaos in my brain for a while.
The second I hit the bottom step, I freeze.
Carter is already claiming the couch like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he does. His massive body is sprawled out lazily, his arm thrown over the backrest, as a glass of iced tea dangles from his fingers.
The TV flickers in front of him, painting his face in flashes of blue and gold. But that’s not what slams the breath out of my lungs; it’s the fact that he’s shirtless.
Holy fuck.
Ink covers every inch of him. It crawls up from his neck, down over his chest, his abs, his arms, and disappears beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants.
Traditional blackwork. Heavy linework. Skulls, roses, scripture. A chaotic map of ink that somehow makes him look even more dangerous.
One tattoo catches my eye—a red-stained rose etched across his right pec, cradling a script I can’t quite make out in the low light.
I wonder who the fuck the rose is for.
His hair’s damp, messy from a shower, a dark lock falling over his forehead. The scent of cinnamon and cloves fills my nostrils as I stand there like an idiot.
He looks over then, his stormy eyes finding me, dragging down my body in a slow, deliberate pass that leaves my skin burning. I swallow hard, and press my thighs together instinctively as a slow throb pulses low in my pussy, clearly betraying me.
Really? For this asshole?
Finally, he grunts, “Jesus. What the hell is that on your face?”
It takes me a second to remember I’m wearing the sheet mask.
“It’s called a face mask,” I say, enunciating every syllable.
