Rowdy || 18+ || RH

Chapter 41

Marx

I sit on the edge of my bed, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. What the hell am I doing? I told Fowler I'd back off, that I wouldn't mess with Emersyn's emotions anymore. Yet here I am, doing just that.

I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. I was going to keep my distance, leave her be. Be a friend, but nothing more.

I'm not the man who can give her what she needs, what she deserves. She deserves the world, and I can't offer her even a fraction of that.

But damn it, when I saw her there, naked and spread out on the couch, with Fowler between her thighs... I should've just kept walking to my room. I should've ignored it. But I couldn't. My legs wouldn't move. And when they finally did, they took me closer to her instead of away.

Fuck.

Fowler knew what he was doing to me. He's aware of this struggle inside me, this fight I'm having with myself. He knows I want her. Hell, he wants me to have her as badly as I want to take her.

But I can't.

I shouldn't.

It was torture, walking away from her. She was right there, on the floor, so close. I could've had her, had everything I wanted. And the worst part? She would've given it to me. She would've willingly given me it all.

I lift my head and look around the room. It's filled with shadows, just like the ones filling my mind. I stand up and pace, my steps heavy, matching the weight in my heart.

I can't keep doing this. I can't keep putting myself in situations where I'm tempted to cross a line I vowed not to cross.

But who am I kidding? I crossed that line the moment I let myself want her. And every second I spend fighting this desire is a second wasted, a second I could've spent making her happy.

But what if I can't make her happy?

What if I'm not enough?

I stop pacing and look at myself in the mirror. The man staring back at me is a man in conflict, torn between what he wants and what he thinks is right. But the more I look into my own eyes, the more I see it—the hunger, the yearning.

I can't keep lying to myself. I want her. I want her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. And maybe, just maybe, I can be the man she deserves. Maybe I can give her a fraction of the world she deserves.

But for that to happen, I need to stop running from this. I need to face it, face her, and find out if what I'm feeling is real.

With a heavy sigh, I walk into my walk-in closet. I stretch, reaching to the very back of the top shelf. My fingers brush against a small, dusty box. A box that holds my past, a box that's the reason I vowed never to fall in love again.

I take the box down and sit on a stool in the corner of the closet. The weight of what's inside is almost too much to bear.

Opening the lid, I pull out a stack of photographs. The first one shows a younger me, smiling brightly, arm in arm with a beautiful woman. She has long, wavy blonde hair and eyes that sparkle like diamonds. We looked so happy, so in love. We were still in college when this was taken.

I flip through the photos, each one a snapshot of a moment in time, forever frozen.

The first one shows us at a beach, the sun setting behind us, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. She's wearing a white sundress, and I can almost hear her laughter, feel the sand between my toes.

I remember that day; we built a sandcastle, only to watch the tide wash it away. "Nothing lasts forever," she had said, but I had hoped we would be the exception.