Page 75 of Jealous Lumberjack

The first thing I see when I blink awake alone in bed is the folded scrap of paper sitting on the nightstand.

Back in 15.

That’s it. Two words and a number, scrawled in a heavy, barely legible hand. Brusque and unvarnished. Just like Knox.

And God help me, I adore it.

I stretch slowly, my limbs loose and heavy after the longest lie-in I’ve had since… well, since I can remember.

The blankets slide away, and I bite my lip as I catch sight of myself in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.

Bruises.

Not the ugly ones that used to come from bumping into walls after Brandon’s tirades left me shaking and off balance, or the invisible ones he planted inside me with sharp words and twisted truths.

No, these are different.

One circles my wrist where Knox gripped me a little too hard when I surprised him by doing his favorite suck and lick while I blew him.

Another shadows my hip, his massive handprint lingering like a brand.

There are faint rings on my thighs from the ropes of his wrestling ring and a bloom just below my collarbone where his mouth latched and sucked until I screamed.

I smile. Actually smile.

Because these marks? They aren’t delivered with a side dish of shame.

They’re proof that someone touched me with desire—albeit rough and raw—instead of malice. That someone left pieces of themselves on me because they couldn’t hold back, not because they wanted to break me down.

But then the thought creeps in, uninvited, poisonous:What would Brandon say if he saw?

My stomach knots. My smile fades.

I hate myself for it, but the truth thrums inside me.

I can’t avoid him forever.

He may not be standing in front of me here, in this cabin, but he’s lurking in my bones, in the sharp voice that used to whisper I was nothing, no one.

And beyond him, there’s the business.

The flower shop I built with my own two hands. The deliveries, the memories of the brides who cried happy tears when I placed bouquets in their arms.

Am I really going to just walk away? Hand it over to the man who tried to convince me it was all his to begin with?

The thought twists deeper.

Because how can I lie here, coaxing Knox not to remain bitter, urging him to believe that shutting himself away only lets the people who hurt him win if I’m busy running myself?

I trace the bruise on my hip again.

The contrast stings.

These marks I deeply cherish. Not so much the other scars—the gaslighting, the control, the hollowing out of who I was. No, those are wounds that still haven’t closed.

And I can’t run from them for ev?—

“Petal.”