Page 44 of The Rose and the Hound (Ashes and Roses #2)

I twisted my wedding ring on my hand as I waited for the kids to file in for story time.

I loved my ring, but I loved what was under it more.

Three years ago, I married Hound. It was a small ceremony in our backyard, with just our nearest and dearest. Hound had a beautiful family, and his parents were as non-judgmental and welcoming as he was.

His mother was an open, warm woman and his father was much like Hound, a big beating heart shielded in body language that looked aloof and calculating.

I still remembered Hound’s vows.

“I promised myself, long before today, that I would never let you out of my sight,” Hound said, his voice low, steady, almost too intimate for the room. A few guests chuckled softly, thinking it was a playful metaphor. But my breath caught. I knew.

“You tried to run from me. Tried to forget me. But here you are ... mine. Always mine. And I swear before everyone here, and before you, Rose, that wherever you go, I will follow. Not because I have to ... but because I want to. Because you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to see when I close my eyes. ”

There was no mistaking the promise under the promise, the vow under the vow. I felt the heat of his words burn straight into my chest. The officiant cleared her throat, smiling as if this were nothing more than a romantic flourish.

When it was my turn, my voice was softer but no less steady. “You’ve always been behind me,” I said, my lips quirking, my eyes never leaving his. “Even when I didn’t know it. Even when I thought I didn’t want it. And I promise ... I’ll let you catch me, every time.”

The rings came next. Hound slid the band onto my finger, his thumb lingering against my skin. I glanced down, and in that instant caught the glint of the engraving hidden inside the gold: With every step.

My stomach flipped, part thrill, part deep, aching love. He had marked me again—not just with vows, not just with touch, but with a secret I alone could read.

I gazed lovingly at the tattoo under my ring.

It was Hound, written in Arabic. I broke my promise to never tattoo my body with a man’s name or image.

But my Hound wasn’t just a man. He was my husband, my stalker, and my protector.

Since Ben came along, we’d toned our oddness down a little, but Ben was now one and we were returning to “our ways,” as his friend and colleague Brett tactfully called it.

I loved being a mother. I’d always wanted a baby, and in my desperation for a family or roots of my own, I’d clung to the thought of mothering Harriet and Blake’s baby, but Ben .

.. he was truly my own and I loved him for the little person he was.

He wasn’t an accessory to me, or some kind of sign that I had true foundations in life.

He was a symbol of my love for Hound and a beautiful human being in his own right.

I’d love to have another and had already begun cajoling Hound.

It wasn’t hard. He always said he’d give me whatever I wanted, and Hound loved being a dad.

“Welcome everyone! I hope you’re all ready for some fun because today we’re going to read about—” My breath caught in my throat.

At the side of the room was Harriet, sitting with a preschooler and an older girl.

She had a baby in her arms. She stared at me intensely, her face a picture of horror and shock.

I glanced down at my book, desperate for somewhere to look.

I forced myself to meet her eye and gave her a weak smile, begging her silently not to make a scene.

She jostled the baby in her arms gently, hushing and soothing her.

“Today we’re going to read about Eloise. She lives in a hotel and has a lot of adventures! After the story, I have some coloring for you all to do. You can choose your favorite picture and use whatever colors you want!”

I always liked to provide an activity after the book. It gave the parents a break and helped the kids engage more with the story.

I read the book in a steady voice, making different voices for each character and forcing myself to look around the room evenly, not avoiding Harriet and her children, but also not looking at them too frequently or for too long.

It had been so long since I’d had to closely watch my behavior and put up a front.

Returning to that dynamic made me feel physically sick.

By the time I’d finished the book, Harriet's preschooler and older child were enthralled. Her eldest daughter likely felt she was too old for Eloise, but her face told me she had really enjoyed it. I moved to the tables I’d set up and began helping children select drawings to color.

I thought Harriet might leave, but she settled her children at a table and stood behind them, all the while rocking her baby.

Her preschooler looked like Blake, an observation that soothed me.

They’d stayed together. I hadn’t ruined her life.

I had brought her great pain, and I had a burning need to apologize, to talk to her and explain.

But that wasn’t my right, and soothing my conscience wouldn’t help Harriet, so I hung back, avoiding that particular table.

“Miss Rose?” Her preschool-aged daughter called me, making it impossible to stay away.

“Yes honey?” I asked, carefully ensuring I remained at a respectful distance. “Do you want a different picture? Or maybe a blank page so you can draw your own picture?”

“No, I wanted to read my little sister The Paper Bag Princess. Do you have it?”

Harriet remained still, her eyes firmly on her baby, though they did glance at my wedding ring briefly.

“Of course I do,” I said gently, glancing at Harriet but addressing the children. I led them to the shelf, pulled the book down, and crouched so I was at eye level with them.

“It’s a story about a girl who makes a mistake about what really matters,” I said softly, holding the cover so both kids could see. “But she learns, and she gets braver because of it.”

The girl grinned. “I like brave girls.”

My throat tightened. I flicked my eyes up just in time to see Harriet watching, her jaw tense, her hands rubbing the baby’s back compulsively. I continued, my words meant for the children but weighted with another meaning.

“Sometimes we hurt people, even if we don’t mean to. And they really don’t deserve to be hurt. But if we’re lucky ...” I swallowed, my voice steady but low, “...we can say we’re sorry, and show we’ve changed by being better every day.”

The girl nodded seriously, as if this were sage advice meant only for her. “Like when I broke Mommy’s vase and then helped clean up?”

“Exactly,” I whispered, offering a small smile. “You make it right by helping, by being kind. You can’t make it right completely because the vase has been broken, but you can say sorry and help clean up.”

Harriet’s eyes glistened, though she kept her lips pressed thin, giving nothing away.

The girl tugged on my sleeve. “Can we take it home?”

“Of course,” I said, slipping the book into her eager hands. I let my gaze linger for a moment on Harriet, letting unspoken apology and regret pass between us like a fragile thread. I did not ask for forgiveness. I was not deserving of that.

“You have beautiful little sisters,” I said to the young girl. “I have little sisters, and I love them. I have a little boy, and I hope one day he has a sister or brother who he can read to.”

Harriet gave the barest nod, enough to acknowledge what had been said without words. Then she ushered the children toward the checkout desk, her back straight, her pace brisk.

I remained crouched by the shelf, heart hammering, knowing I had just spoken the only apology Harriet would ever accept.

I wanted desperately to tell Harriet that I had been wrong.

That I had been sick. Blake was never mine, and he wasn’t meant to be.

I had my person now and loved my family, making me all the more aware of how hurtful it must have been for her to see someone like me trying to tear hers apart.

But I couldn’t say that. Harriet knew I was regretful and didn’t need my life story. Time to let things go.