Page 43 of The Rose and the Hound (Ashes and Roses #2)

“Come back to bed, Zahra. Just ten more minutes,” Ace begged, leaning over my abandoned spot in our bed to make a grab for my naked ass.

“No! I begged Shania to put on this event, and I want to make sure everything is ready!”

It was a Saturday morning, and my first ever story time with the preschool kids.

I had bought a Peter Rabbit sweater especially for this occasion, and despite being horrendously expensive and not fit to wear anywhere but the library, it would hopefully make the kids happy.

Introducing children to books had fulfilled me much more than I’d ever believed possible.

To see their dreamy expressions when you read about naughty dogs or toys that came to life was more rewarding than my pay cheque, not that my pay cheque was remotely rewarding.

I had come so far in the last year. Shania had hired me as a general library assistant, but through perseverance and volunteering at children’s events, I’d convinced her to create the children’s librarian position.

It was a small library, and I still performed general duties, but I had created a story time and a special reading space just for kids.

Parents were now coming from nearby areas to enjoy the space and take advantage of the activities I offered.

The parents and kids loved it, but the peace and healing it gave me was indescribable.

I remembered being a frightened child, left home alone by my mother while she entertained men.

It was books that soothed me. They made me forget I was alone, unprotected, and unloved.

While I was reading about Pippi Longstocking’s adventures and Anne from Avonlea, I didn’t hear the small creaking sounds of the house that would otherwise have panicked me.

I was with “friends,” the characters in my book.

I was loved and part of something bigger.

“Come on, Zahra. I’m feeling very neglected.” Ace did his best pout, which was terrible and made him look like he was sucking a lemon.

“Neglected? I’ve shown you love this morning and several times yesterday. Come to story time! You can sit with the kids and hear about mean old Mr. McGregor.”

“Pfft. I’m not sitting with a bunch of kids while I’m perving on the librarian and battling a boner. That would be inappropriate, Zahra,” he whined.

“Then you’ll have to wait until I come home,” I concluded.

I leaned over and kissed his head before making my way to the shower.

I loved my job. I was always a hard worker, even when I was a factory picker whose sole career goal was avoiding people and connection.

In my new career, I thrived on people and connections.

It was a place I’d never dreamed I'd reach.

I sang while washing my hair. I loved my life.

I really did. I lived in Ace’s house now but spent a lot of time back at my old building visiting Gloria.

Shania and I also socialized, and I even continued to meet grumpy Jessie for coffee every now and then.

I was building my world, but my Hound was the center of it.

I’d learned to let go of my fears and barriers.

I still saw Dr. Warren. Next year, seeing her would no longer be a legal obligation, but I recognized that some people need ongoing help, and I was one of those people.

While I was strong and well now, I had to guard that.

Not zealously or with a sense of doom or paranoia, but in the same way I managed my physical health, with care and balance.

Some people saw a specialist for life due to physical health issues.

I visited Dr. Warren regularly for mental health maintenance, and I no longer felt shame about that.

I had formed a great relationship with Paul and his family, particularly his wife.

Sally was a bossy person, but it was the best kind of bossy.

She included me in everything and was really more of a friend than a stepmother.

The whole “father” and “stepmother” dynamic was odd, so my relationship with Sally and Paul was more of a friendly one.

They were supportive of my career and loved Hound, and we frequently hung out together as a group.

Hound and I had settled into a sweet kind of domesticity, but our wilder sides were always there, simmering beneath the surface.

When a carpenter had begun work on library renovations a few months ago, the Hound had been suspicious of his intentions simply because he’d bought me a coffee once.

I had seen my Hound’s car a few times in the parking lot, just watching.

One night, I’d come out to my car to find a polaroid tucked under my wipers.

It was an image of me standing behind the desk while the carpenter explained the delays to me.

Hound never scared me. He trusted me, but not others.

Feelings of jealousy never created arguments between us.

Quite the opposite. Hound was his hungriest and darkest when he felt jealous, which had given me some of the best nights of my life.

Surprisingly, I found I wasn’t a jealous person, likely because Hound made it known that I was his world and he tended to be cold toward women who approached him, as though he needed to constantly prove his commitment to me.

I still enjoyed stalking him. Six months ago, we had a huge argument about potentially moving house.

I wanted to stay, but Ace felt we needed a fresh start, which made me feel incredibly insecure.

Fresh start from what? Were we getting stale?

Ultimately, he confessed that he heard the neighbors talking about my past and was concerned that I would be targeted, but I told him I genuinely didn’t care.

I had my people and was very settled in my life.

To show him I’d forgiven him, I waited until Brett left the office one day and confronted him in an overcoat.

I was no longer unmedicated, so jumping out of the bushes naked was beyond my limits.

I flashed him and he dragged me back into his office and locked the door.

So yeah, we probably weren’t the most normal of couples, but we were happy.

He had a tattoo of a rose on his left inner forearm, but I had stuck firm to my pledge to not tattoo myself for a man again.

I applied my makeup carefully, making sure I looked bright and happy.

Hound was now in the kitchen, making me breakfast to go.

I smiled at the sight. My boyfriend cared whether I ate.

He cared if I was cold or unhappy. I was about to go to work, where children would call me “Miss Rose” and beg me to read them another story and I actually got paid for it.

My mother was proof that you can have jewelry boxes full of gifts and still die starving for love.

I can’t excuse her, but I can pity the hunger that ate her whole.

She thought she had so much but never realized that she had so little.

I hadn’t heard from her for years but had worked on my feelings toward her a great deal with Dr. Warren.

Hound was odd when I spoke of my mother and seemed quietly confident that I'd never see her again.

I knew enough of Hound to not ask any further questions.