The Rose He Killed novel Chapter 135

Chapter 122: Reconciliation

Bella POV

He was in the kitchen when came out, two glasses of water on the counter, his back to me. He turned when he heard my footsteps and handed me a glass without saying anything, which was very Caleb-like.

I took it as we stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island and drank our water like two people who had just survived something and weren’t entirely sure yet what the protocol was.

“I owe you an apology,” I said.

“Bella”

“Let me.” I set the glass down. “I watched a business handoff in a car park and I spent days building a case against you in my head, and when I finally confronted you I made you feel like a suspect. That wasn’t about you. It was about every man who ever gave me a reason to distrust them, and I used you as the target for all of it.” I looked at him. “You didn’t deserve that, you have spent months doing everything right and I handed you the bill for other people’s debts. I’m sorry.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he came around the island, not fast, giving me every opportunity to step back, and stopped in front of me.

“I understand your triggers,” he said. “I put most of them there. You don’t have to apologize to me for the fact that they exist.”

“I know. I’m apologizing for how I used them.”

He looked at me with those grey eyes that I had spent so long trying to be unmoved by, and I held the look.

“I want to move out of the guest room,” I said.

The words landed quietly between us as I watched something shift in his face. “Bella”

“Let me finish.” I exhaled. “When I moved in here on day one and told myself I hated it but had no choice, and every time something cracked between us I was grateful wasn’t anywhere near you.” I looked at him. “I’ve been sleeping doors down from you for months and calling that strength. It wasn’t. It was just a longer way of running.”

He was very still,

“I don’t want the guest room anymore,” I said. “I want to be here. I’m choosing this – not because it’s safe, it isn’t, but because it’s real and it’s mine and I’m done treating real things like something to survive instead of something to have.”

The silence stretched. Then he reached up and touched my face – just his thumb against my cheek, slow and careful – and I closed my eyes and leaned into it and heard him exhale like a man who had been holding his breath for a very long time.

“Bella,” he said.

“I know,”

2

Cham

When I opened my eyes he was very close, close enough that I could see the lines around his eyes and the Tension that hadn’t fully left his jaw, and I reached up and put my hand against that jaw and felt the muscle

soften under my palm. He turned his face slightly into my hand, the same way he always did – unconscious, instinctive like even now he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed.

It undid me every time.

I kissed him first. Soft, just the press of my lips against his.

He made a low sound and kissed me back with a gentleness that made my chest ache, one hand coming up to cup the back of my head, the other finding my waist and pulling me in until there was no distance left.

We kissed in the kitchen for a long time, unhurried, relearning each other – the particular way he tilted his head, the way his hands moved like they were memorizing, the sound he made when I pressed closer and he tightened his arms around me like I might otherwise dissolve.

When we finally broke apart I was breathing harder than the kiss warranted, and he pressed his forehead against mine and closed his eyes.

“God,” he said, rough and quiet. “I missed you,” He stopped. “I don’t have a comparison that isn’t embarrassing.”

I laughed, a small sound against his mouth. “Try.”

“Like a structural failure,” he said, and I could hear the reluctant honesty in it. “Like something load-bearing gave way.”

I kissed him again-harder, deeper-before he could overthink it. My fingers slid into his black hair, tugging just enough to make him groan low in his throat. His body pressed forward, guiding me backward until my hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter. The cool granite pressed against my lower back through the thin silk of the robe.

His mouth left mine and traveled down: jaw, neck, the sensitive spot just below my ear. Slowly. Each open-mouthed kiss sent heat curling straight between my legs.

His hands slipped under the robe, rough palms sliding up my bare sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I shivered hard, n*****s tightening instantly.

“Bella,” he murmured against my skin, voice rough. His thumbs circled once, then grazed over the stiff peaks. I gasped, arching into his touch. “Tell me what you want.”

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