Page 45 of Rose

“Ready to go to the waterpark!” Marley beamed, clapping her hands as the twins squealed in excitement, bouncing in place.

Savior’s face lit up.

So hearing that Aunt Marley was taking them swimming? It sparked something in him.

“Twins, finish your food and go put on your swimwear,” Selene said calmly. “Liv, you too.”

Savior paused, waiting—hoping—she’d turn to him and say the same.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t even look at him.

Macho leaned over the counter, hyped. “Man, I bet you won’t get on that big-ass slide that just drops you. I heard the last nigga threw up on that shit.”

Savior laughed, already imagining the rush, before Marley popped Macho in the back of the head.

“Language, nigga,” she snapped, eyes cutting at him.

“Ow! My bad, Ma,” Macho mumbled, rubbing his head as Savior chuckled.

“Put five on it that I go down that slide twice,” Savior said, grinning now.

But his smile faded as soon as Saint’s voice cut through the room.

“Go ahead and hand him that five… because you not going.”

Savior snapped his head toward his father so fast his neck almost cracked. “What? Why?”

“Who the fuck you bucking up at?” Saint growled, setting his mug down and squaring up with his son.

It was like watching a man stare down his reflection. Same eyes. Same anger. Same fire.

“Calm your angry ass down, Saint,” Marley cut in, stepping between them. “He was blindsided. And Savvy asked a valid question. Why the fuck can’t he go? His siblings, best friend, and cousin can, but he can’t?”

Saint didn’t answer her.

He looked at Marley like a little sister—he’d never disrespect her—but he hated when she questioned his parenting. This was his house. His rules. And he didn’t answer to anyone.

“He’s got business to handle today,” Saint said, dismissively.

Savior’s stomach sank .

He knew what that meant.

More work. More training. More blood. More of becoming the thing he was never asked if he wanted to be.

“What business does an eight-year-old need to handle?” Marley pressed, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Saint’s eyes shifted toward Selene.

The power move was clear. When Marley pushed too far, he sent for her twin.

Selene, the soft one. The calm one. The deadly one. Her silence could choke a room.

“Mar, chill,” Selene said, her voice cool but final. “Savior knows what’s required of him. He’s the oldest. He’s next in line. He’s not going to the waterpark—like his father said.”

That was it.

No defense. No motherly instinct. No trace of love. Just obedience.

Marley rolled her eyes and turned away in frustration. Savior stood frozen, heart pounding behind his ribs.

Why did he ever think his mother would have his back?

She never did.

Later that day…

Slap. Hit. Pain. Blood.

That was all Savior felt as his father’s fist slammed into his ribs again.

He was only eight, but already stood chest-level to his 6'3 father. Tall for his age. Stronger than most kids. But it didn’t matter.

Because none of that made this feel less like hell.

Savior was training like a soldier. Being punished like a criminal. And today, he’d cried. Not because he missed the shot during their hunting session—he could’ve hit the target. He had the skill. He missed on purpose. It was defiance. A silent scream for help.

While Macho, Olivia, and the twins screamed on water slides, he’d taken the safety off a rifle and aimed his heart at nothing.

His father didn’t take the message. He took it as disrespect. And now, he was paying for it.

Saint’s fists were unforgiving. Each punch came down like he was trying to carve weakness out of his son’s body with his bare hands.

Savior’s skin burned where the blows landed, and he could already feel bruises blooming beneath the surface of his dark skin.

“Fight back, nigga,” Saint growled, standing over him like a mountain made of rage.

Savior clutched his ribs, struggling to breathe. His arms ached. His legs were jelly. And his soul felt like it was disappearing.

He didn’t fight back.

Because fighting back would make it worse. Fighting back meant war. And he was just a boy pretending to be built for it.

“I didn’t raise a pussy. Hit back!” Saint roared, throwing another punch that sent Savior stumbling to the floor .

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. But he didn’t let them fall. Not in front of him.

The door opened.

Selene stepped into the room, still wearing her swimsuit and a sheer cover-up, the scent of chlorine and sunscreen clinging to her. A phone rang in her hand.

She didn’t flinch at the sight of her husband standing over their son. Didn’t scream. Didn’t run to Savior. She held out the phone, wordless, her gaze low.

“Call,” she muttered, offering it to Saint.

Savior looked up at her. Hope flickered in his chest—tiny and foolish.

Say something. Stop him. Just look at me like I’m your child, not your regret.

But she didn’t move.

She met his eyes just long enough for him to see it—the guilt. The hurt. The knowing.

She knew this was wrong. She knew.

“Help me…”

The words fell from Savior’s mouth in a cracked whisper, almost too soft to hear, except they weren’t meant for the room. They were meant for her.

Tears streaked his bruised cheeks, breath catching in his throat as he curled on the floor, ribs screaming, body trembling. Saint stood with his back turned, already on the phone like the beating never happened.

Selene stood in the doorway.

Still. Frozen. Watching.

She said nothing. Did nothing. Just stared, hands limp at her sides, eyes locked on the child she gave birth to. A child who was begging, not just for help, but for love.

And she walked right past it.

This wasn’t the first time. Savior had grown used to the blood, the pain, the sharp fists that Saint called “discipline.” But the ache in his chest never dulled. And it burned worst when it came from her.

Because Selene never chose him.

She chose Saint. Always. Whatever he said was law. However he raised their son—even if it was through fists and fear—she backed it. She didn’t mother him. She let Saint mold him. Break him. Harden him.

Every now and then, when Saint wasn’t looking, she’d whisper a soft word. A fleeting touch. A weak flicker of care. But only when it was safe for her.

Never when he needed it most.

Saint ended the call and handed her the phone. No words exchanged. No second glance. She took it, turned, and walked out.

Just like that.

Left her son on the ground, blood in his mouth, heart shattering in silence. Left him pleading with his eyes for even a sliver of something warm. Something human. Something motherly.

But she gave him nothing.

And in that moment, it wasn't Saint's fists that hurt the most. It was her absence.

Her choice to walk away instead of fight for him .

That’s when it hit him.

Love wasn’t for him. Not from her. Not from anyone.

That day haunted him like a curse he couldn’t shake. It replayed in his mind on a loop, his screams echoing, fists landing, blood dripping. And when he looked up, broken and desperate, the one person who was supposed to save him turned her back and walked away. His mother.

She saw him.

She saw him bleeding, crying, begging —and still, she walked out. That was the most fucked up part. Because there was guilt in her eyes. Sadness. But not enough to stay. Not enough to love him.

She knew what his father was doing. She knew it was wrong. But she let it happen. Every time. No defense. No protection. No love.

He was thirty-two now, and Savior could count on one hand the moments his mother had ever shown him softness. And Saint? That man had never shown softness a day in his life. Savior wasn’t raised to be a son, he was bred to be a soldier. Molded with fists. Hardened with silence.

He’d grown used to it.

But the part that still cut deep—the wound that never closed—was what he never had. A mother’s love. The kisses. The warmth. The smiles. The softness . He didn’t get that. And if he was honest?

It fucked him up. Bad.

He never said the word love. Not like that.

The only time it left his lips was in the goodbye his siblings tossed around— All love.

Casual. Hollow. Never the kind that made your chest rise.

Never the kind that made you want to give someone your soul.

The kind that made your heart thump like a war drum and stole the breath from your lungs.

He thought he’d never feel that. Not in this lifetime.

Until Ahzii.

It had only been a week since their museum date, but she was still in him.

In his head. In his blood. That night, the way she opened up, it unraveled something in him.

Something buried deep. She was broken, too.

But in a way that mirrored him. And piece by piece, he was digging her out of that grave life had buried her in.

And fuck... he felt something strong for her. Stronger than he ever had for anyone.

But was it love?

He didn’t know. Maybe because no one ever showed him what that was supposed to look like. Maybe because Selene twisted the word into something poisonous. Savior didn’t want to call it love if he couldn’t mean it. He was intentional like that. Precise. Controlled.

So no—he wouldn’t put a name on it yet.

But whatever this was with Ahzii?

It was the realest thing he’d ever known.

“So, I hear you finally took the beautiful woman on the bike seriously?”

Aunt Marley’s voice broke through his clouded thoughts, dragging Savior back to the present. Smoke curled between them, soft and lazy in the golden hour light, while they chilled outside her backyard oasis .

She never needed a mansion. Aunt Marley’s home—a cozy, two-story house tucked into nature was enough.

The inside wrapped you in warm greens, whites, and golds.

Every inch was her—eclectic, earthy, sacred.

The backyard was a slice of peace: a glistening pool, a patio where family game nights turned into therapy sessions, and her personal pride, a flourishing garden that fed both her soul and her meals.