Rosalie returned to camp with John and Arthur. Hosea and Dutch had scampered off from the docks before the law could arrive. As soon as she arrived with Arthur and John, she told Dutch and Hosea that she had finally killed Cormac, her eyes glazed with a distant look. It was still nighttime, and the trio smelled of smoke, sweat, and swampy waters.

Dutch immediately chewed her out, reprimanding her for her reckless behavior and acting without his approval. He berated her for allowing her need for vengeance to control her, putting them all in danger. He was determined to drive his point home, even if it fell on deaf ears.

Rosalie, like a zombie, barely reacted to his harsh scolding. Hosea noticed the faraway look in her eyes and stopped Dutch in the middle of his long speech. He could tell that something was off with her, and no amount of scolding from himself or Dutch would make her see reason now. So, Hosea told her to get some rest, and that he and Dutch would see to it that Forswood was dealt with for her grandfather while she gathered herself.

Rosalie didn't say anything else to anyone and listened to Hosea's instructions. There was no victory, no whooping and hollering with joy. All she had the energy to do was meander to her tent and crawl inside, laying on top of her bedroll fully clothed, still smelling of ash and covered in debris.

The next few days progressed as such too. She barely dressed or left camp. She would wear the same clothes for days at a time. Rosalie made no visits to Annie, or to her cousins. She didn't go to see Isabella or George. The only time she left her bedroll was to find a fresh pack of cigarettes or to make her way to the crates of alcohol near the campfire. Bottles of alcohol filled her tent and she didn't bother to clean.

Rosalie would lay there in her own filth, rotting away as she stared at the tent wall aimlessly. She barely thought about where she was or what she did each day, the thought of food or doing anything productive slipping her mind.

John would come by often, opening her tent flaps to peer inside. He would stand there in silence, at a loss for what to do as he stared at the husk of a person lying in her filth. It scared him. This person was not who he had come to know as Rosalie as over their months together.

Sometimes John would say hello, or ask if she wanted any food. She wouldn't respond. He resulted in leaving bowls of their nightly strew or roasted game just inside the tent flaps in hopes she would pick at it. The only reason he knew the food was eaten was because he would find empty dishes when he came to bring her the next meal.

Dutch and Hosea were at a loss for what to do. John asked if they should talk to her, or force her out of the tent. Dutch would say she needed to deal with her grief in her own time, and that they were busy tying up the loose ends with Forswood now that the O'Driscolls were no longer a present problem.

Dutch didn't have any words of wisdom he could offer himself anyway, as he was still wrestling with the loss of the opportunity to take out Colm and his grief over Annabelle.

There was no trace of the O'Driscolls in New Orleans since the fire at the docks. It seemed they scampered off to their hole now that the loose canon of Cormac O'Driscoll was dead. It wasn't a surprising fact, as the loss of leadership made the O'Driscoll gang vulnerable—but he knew Colm wouldn't stay in hiding for long.

Dutch wanted to be the one to make Colm pay. He wanted to kill the man who had taken the love of his life, but he also knew that Cormac's death would make them suffer greatly. Colm O'Driscoll's gang was bleeding. There was some success in that, and he could learn to be satisfied with it.

For now.

Arthur had steered clear of Rosalie's rotten-smelling tent. He had barely spoken to Rosalie, unsure how to start any conversation with her. It was strange, as he had always seen her as a wild, fearless girl who faced challenges head-on with an intimidating sort of courage.

Seeing Rosalie now as this empty, soulless person living off cigarettes and alcohol was unsettling. Like John, he struggled with the sight of her, this girl so different from the one he had come to know over the past half-year.

It didn't make him feel good to know she was suffering, but he was just at a loss for what to do. He wasn't good at comforting people. Hell, he had never comforted anyone in his life before Mary. The affection he shared with her still felt strange some days, so how was he supposed to offer a shoulder of comfort to Rosalie, when it was already hard for him to be gentle with the woman he was courting?

Arthur had been wrestling with how to approach her for a few days, casting long, sideways glances at her tent before he left to see Mary. It wasn't until he heard Grimshaw outside Rosalie's tent, screeching like an enraged bird, did he finally decide to speak up.

"I am tired of you lazin' around and being a no-good freeloader!" Susan screeched, holding up the tent flap as she stared inside.

Arthur came over, blinking at the distressed state her tent was in. It reeked, the pure smell of body odor and rotten alcohol smacking him in the face as he came to stand near Grimshaw.

Empty beer bottles littered her tent floor. The beer, however, was few in comparison to the dozens of whisky bottles scattered throughout the tent, some even in her bedroll and leaking, creating small, dripping wet spots of whisky. Half-smoked cigarette buds were squashed into the tent floor. Her clothes were strewn about and dirtied, mixed in with the disturbing amount of cigarettes and drank alcohol bottles.

It was unsettling, especially as Rosalie was the epitome of a rigid German, her clothes always folded neatly and with care. Her belongings were always put in their proper place, and he didn't think there was a day where Rosalie went without bathing or at least rinsing off her face. She always combed her curls with that wooden, wide tooth comb he always found odd, and would do something intricate with her wild, curly hair if she didn't let it hang around her face like a wild lion's mane after spending a strenuous amount of time detangling it.

This girl, lying in her own filth, was unlike anything he had seen from her over the months of knowing her.

His stomach churned as his eyes skimmed the disgusting state of her tent.

Rosalie didn't budge, even from Grimshaw's hollering. Grimshaw gestured for Arthur to take the tent flap. He took it, obediently watching as Grimshaw stepped inside, grumbling under her breath as she stepped around the trash. She hooked her hand around Rosalie's arm and tried to pull her up.

"C'mon, up you go, Miss. This has gone on far too long–!"

"Let me go!" Rosalie shouted, her anger a jarring switch from the numb, empty girl that barely seemed to notice them a moment ago. "Getchur' h-hans' off me!" She slurred as she made a weak attempt to pull herself from the older woman.

Grimshaw scoffed. "I am sorry, miss, but this is gettin' to be too much. I'm doin' this for your own good! Now come on!"

Grimshaw moved to grab Rosalie again, but Rosalie made an animalistic sound of anger, grabbing a bottle of whisky as she stumbled to her feet before Grimshaw could get a handle on her. The older woman backed up out of the girl's way, blinking as Rosalie stumbled forward, barely able to get to her feet.

Arthur eyed the bottle in Rosalie's hand, watching for her in case she decided to have a moment of drunken violence. The corner of his mouth twisted.

"You hate whisky. You told me that yourself. Why you drinkin' that?" He asked, his gaze straying on the borderline empty bottle of whisky, before flicking to meet her gaze.

At the sound of his voice, Rosalie turned to face him, her face instantly souring. "Why tha' hell are… are you… y-you here?!" She slurred, her voice turning angry at the end of her sentence.

Her eyes were bloodshot, deep bags under her eyes, her face pale and sunken in. Her blonde curls were ratty and matted on the side of her head. It was a disturbing sight to see her in such a way.

Arthur only frowned. "Jus' came to check on you is all." He said, quick to keep his poor temper under control for her sake.

"Nah, you don't care 'bout that…!" Rosalie laughed sarcastically, stumbling toward Arthur and out of the tent.

She pushed a hand against his chest, shoving him backward. He dropped the tent flap and moved with minimal effort, allowing himself to be shoved since she had almost no strength in her drunken state.

Rosalie stumbled forward, her bloodshot gaze narrowed in on him. "Why don' ya' go do whatchu' really want! H-huh?! Whatchu' really wan'… is Mary!"

Rosalie scoffed and shook her head. She took a swig from the bottle, the brown liquid sloshing as she raised it to her lips. The drink burned as it went down and she wiped the back of her mouth carelessly. "Pretendin' to care about me… as if!" She cried.

She gave him a nasty look. It was unlike one he had seen before from her, his heart jumping to his throat at the sight of the pure, angry hatred. "Go see your s-sweetheart! Don' pretend to give a shit 'bout me!" She screamed.

John ran over at the sound of her voice, blinking at the sight of her yelling and swinging around the bottle. He stood there with concern, big brown eyes wide and his hands at his sides.

"That ain't true, and you know it," Arthur said slowly. "I care about you. Jus' because I love Mary–!"

Rosalie howled with drunk laughter and stumbled again, pressing her hand to her face. "There ya' go again! Love this! Love that! L-Love Mary! All the time! That's all y-you ever say!" She slurred. "I get it, trus' me! M-Mary is an angel! I'm nothin' c-com…compared to that!"

Rosalie sniffed, her shoulders suddenly caving in as her body racked with sobs. The bottle still held in her hands, she lifted her hands to her face in a drunken attempt to save her dignity as she cried, tears rushing down her face. "I… I'm not worth a t-thing! My Daddy is gone, my Uncle is gone, I-I—I don' have anythin'!" She sobbed, her words a mess and incoherent, the switch from her hysterical rage to her babbling nothing short of confusing.

Arthur stared at her, completely dumbfounded and at a loss for what he was supposed to say. He didn't understand why she cared so much about Mary. She spoke about her so often with such distaste, but it was hard to tell what Rosalie really felt towards Mary, as it was almost as if Rosalie was disgusted with herself when she thought of the other woman.

Arthur had no idea what was going through Rosalie's head. It confused him, and made his heart hurt for someone he considered a close friend. He wanted to help her, but he just couldn't understand what made her so angry about Mary—that anger, coupled with the overwhelming grief at the loss of her father and uncle, seemed to drive Rosalie to the edge that she had been teetering on since that night in the saloon all those months ago.

He wanted to help her, but he didn't know how.

Susan came out of the tent and took Arthur by the arm, looking at Rosalie. "You need some time to yourself, miss, to get cleaned up. This is very unbecoming of you."

Rosalie lifted her head, blinking watery tears at Grimshaw's hardened face.

"Now, that ain't fair–!" Arthur began, looking at Grimshaw, before glancing at Rosalie who was staring at the older woman with her large brown eyes, bloodshot and watery as though the older woman had kicked her to the ground.

"No, even if she's grieving, it ain't give her the right to push you or be downright nasty." Grimshaw gave her a disappointed look, before taking Arthur by the arm and leading him away from her.

Rosalie's lower lip quivered as Arthur allowed himself to be led away like a small child.

She stumbled backward, landing on the ground outside her tent on her butt. She hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed, burying her face as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. It was a messy cry, blubbering as she drunkenly held onto the bottle and awkwardly buried her face in her legs to shield herself from the only sober sense of embarrassment rushing through her.

Rosalie felt hopeless. Or at least, it was what she thought was hopelessness, as the alcohol clouding her thoughts made it hard for her to form any real thoughts at all that weren't a whirlwind of emotions that seemed to make no sense at all.

There was the crunching of grass, before someone sank to the ground beside her. Rosalie didn't look up and continued to cry. She was too embarrassed to look at whoever decided to come over, and she could feel the drunken exhaustion in her limbs, the thought of lifting her head seeming like too much work in her state.

Smaller, skinny arms snaked around her waist as they scooted closer and pulled her to them.

"I'm real sorry, Rosie," John said quietly, his voice sad.

At the sound, Rosalie sniffed, leaning into his comfort as she cried harder.

Rosalie woke up some hours later in her tent as it was nearing nighttime, tucked into the bedroll with her hair combed. She had slept the day away. The mess of bottles and cigarette butts were gone, the only remnants being the random burn patches on the ground.

She had a pounding headache, her throat dry and her stomach gurgling in discomfort. There was a watery sensation in her mouth, and it was enough for her to gasp and dart out of her tent to throw up. She heaved as she expended the contents of her stomach, her hands on her knees.

Once it seemed she had gotten up all she could, she coughed, dropping to the ground beside her pile of vomit and grimacing as her head continued to spin.

"Here, eat this."

Rosalie looked up to see Hosea offering her a bowl of steaming stew. She grimaced and looked away. "I don't want that. It'll make me sick." She muttered.

Hosea sighed and shook the bowl, urging her to take it. "It won't. Trust me."

Rosalie grimaced with her gaze trained on the ground. There was a beat of silence. The smell of the stew filled her nose, and instead of the distasteful gurgling her innards were doing when she woke up, her stomach grumbled, the thought of the stew making her mouth water.

With a sigh, Rosalie took the bowl and lifted a spoonful to her mouth. The flavor of the gamey venison eased her headache and quieted the nauseated feeling in her stomach.

"Whenever I would drink a little too much, this was my go-to meal," Hosea said, placing his hands on his hips. "I reckon it did just the trick for you, yes?"

"Yeah," Rosalie muttered, slowly lifting spoonfuls of the steaming stew to her lips. "Thanks."

"Mhm." He said.

Rosalie sipped at the stew quietly. Grimshaw bickered with John across camp about something, filling the silence. Hosea pulled out a cigarette and lit it beside her.

She didn't have much of an appetite recently, which was probably part of the reason Hosea insisted she eat the strew. The only reason she ate at all was because John brought her food. Even though she never really had a strong desire to eat what he brought her, it was only the painful, raw hunger that urged her to dig into the meals. Most of her calories as of late were in the form of alcohol.

Rosalie tossed the finished bowl in the grass beside her. She fished a cigarette from her pocket and slotted it between her lips. Striking a match, she held the small flame to her lips and lit it with a puff.

Hosea glanced at her. "John put you in bed last night. Passed out sitting up 'cause you were so drunk." He said.

Rosalie flushed with shame. "Ah."

Poor John. She loved that kid like he was her blood brother. No wonder she woke up tucked in her bedroll with clean, unknotted hair, when she usually passed out in a pile of bottles in the grass before her bedroll. John made sure she was tucked in and clean, despite the drunken fool she had made of herself.

"I turned to the bottle when Bessie died. It wasn't my brightest moment, and I still find myself picking up one too many beers sometimes 'cause the pain is too much to bear," Hosea said, looking up at the sky with a smoking cigarette between his fingers. "But it wasn't a good look on me." He glanced at her again. "It ain't a good look on you either, miss."

Rosalie grimaced and looked off to the side, all too aware of the look he was giving her.

The concern Hosea had over her drinking habits was none of his concern. She knew he was coming from a good place, but he didn't understand. Not really. Not when he had Dutch and Arthur as his family to rely on, the years of history between them making them indistinguishable from blood. Of course, Rosalie loved John like a sibling, but he was twelve. He wasn't someone who could shoulder the weight of her grief.

Rosalie didn't have any family. Not anymore. Her father and uncle were the only people she ever called home. She had grown up beside them in New England, running from the law after a whirlwind scheme, laughing and grinning as they tricked another fool into giving them their pocket money.

That was something this group would never understand.

They would never understand the love she shared with her father and uncle. They would never understand what it was like to sit around the fire with them and listen to her father strum his guitar as they sang hymns. The warmth that filled her as she would wake in the morning to the crisp Boston air, her father passing a warm cup of coffee to her hands.

They would never understand that. None of them did.

Rosalie scoffed and got to her feet. She tossed the cigarette to the ground and stomped it with her foot, grinding it into the grass. She didn't toss another glance at Hosea, heading across the clearing to the crate of whisky she had been pulling from over the last few days.

She lifted the lid, blinking at the sight of it completely barren.

Her throat tightened, and she looked down at her feet to the crate of beer. She kicked off the lid with her foot, the wood sliding and hitting the grass with a thunk.

Barren.

"You drank up all the liquor, miss," Grimshaw said from the washbin of dishes off to the side, her hands submerged in the dirty water. She looked up at Rosalie with a stink eye of disapproval.

John looked up at Rosalie from the fire, book in hand as he practiced his reading. He was excited to see her up and about, but his face fell once he noticed her attention on the crates of alcohol.

Rosalie's heart thumped in her chest as she was overwhelmed with irritation and shame.

Who did Susan think she was, giving her all these sideways looks of disappointment as if she was her mother?! It drove her mad. Susan wasn't her parent. Rosalie had those already, and they were both dead.

Rosalie slammed the lid onto the crate. John jumped at the sound. Susan's face twisted, the woman standing to her full height as she prepared to start her shrill screaming.

"Don't even think about it!" Rosalie shouted over her shoulder at Susan, stomping over to Blitz across the clearing. She grabbed his saddle and fastened it to the black stallion, rage clouding her vision as she tugged on the straps. "I'll go get my own fucking alcohol, so you don't gotta worry about me taking any more of yours!"

Rosalie turned Blitz out of camp and pressed her heels into his sides, kicking him into a trot toward town.

She was filled with disgust as she rode toward New Orleans. The thoughts of her parents and the loss of her father and uncle were too much to bear. She needed a drink. She couldn't think properly with alcohol—which is what she needed right now. Not to think. She didn't want to think about anything.

Once she rode into town, she hitched her horse outside the nearest saloon. Men stood outside the building with their friends or idly smoking a cigarette. They sent glances her way as she walked up the steps and entered the saloon, her boots thumping against the steps and wooden floor.

The saloon was filled with cigarette smoke, many women and men chatting at tables or leaning against walls. The dim lighting, as it neared night, created a gloomy atmosphere. The pianist idly fingered the keys across the way as he filled the room with a quiet and somber melody.

Rosalie pushed past a man heading toward the exit and walked up to the bar. She sat herself on a stool and fidgeted with her fingers, her eyes running over the various bottles of alcohol behind the bartender. The corner of her mouth twisted.

She just wanted a damn drink.

"Anythin' I can get for you, miss?" The bartender asked, coming over to her. He had a handlebar mustache, his thick, black eyebrows raising at her disheveled and dirty shirt, and the sunken appearance of her skin.

"Two glasses of whiskey," Rosalie said as she fished the money from her pocket and tossed it on the bar counter.

"You meetin' a friend?" He asked as he took the money.

"No," Rosalie said simply, looking away from him with disinterest.

The bartender looked at her with obvious disapproval. Rosalie ignored him.

Even if there was some judgment on his part, he was still paid properly, so he poured the strong-smelling brown liquid into two glasses and pushed them in her direction.

Rosalie tossed the glasses back with minimal effort. Soon, the two glasses turned into three, then four, then five. At that point, she was feeling the fuzzy effects of the alcohol, her brain having a hard time making any coherent thought as she stared at the wall behind the bar aimlessly.

She wasn't paying attention to anything around her, enjoying the numbness of the alcohol thundering through her veins. Until someone slid into the seat beside her.

"Hello there, little lady. Want some company?"

Rosalie looked over, her mouth twisting at the sight of a man with gruff facial hair that looked like a five o'clock shadow, his brown hair long and cut in the shape of a mullet. He wore a brown, worn rodeo hat. He wasn't ugly by any means, but she could tell that there was something a little… off about him, whether it be by the wild look in his gray eyes, or the quirk of his lip.

"Sure, if you can buy me another drink," Rosalie said plainly as she turned her attention to the wall again.

The man laughed. "Oh? You demandin' now, instead of askin' me nicely? Maybe you should say please and I'll oblige." He said in a low voice.

Even in her borderline drunken state, Rosalie snorted. "I'm not saying please."

The man didn't get angry. Instead, he chuckled and waved over the bartender. He gestured to Rosalie. "A shot of whiskey for the lady." He tossed a dollar at the bartender.

The bartender poured the drink and passed it to Rosalie. She took it and shot it back as though it was water, her face not even grimacing as the foul taste hit her tongue and ran down the back of her throat.

The man laughed. "My, you drinkin' that as if it's nothin'! I ain't never seen a lady do that before. Bet you're a tough girl, huh?" He asked, scooting closer, his hand creeping to rest on her knee. "Tough, and a beaut'."

Rosalie turned to look at him again, her brows furrowing as she took in his appearance, her eyes dragging over him.

He wore a black worn jacket, but a relatively clean brown shirt underneath. He didn't smell bad, but he seemed like someone who wasn't a regular resident here and used to luxury living. Someone who knew the open road, similar to herself. There weren't any weapons in plain sight, besides the revolver on his hip. Though there could be a hidden knife somewhere on his person. She wasn't sure. It was hard to think properly with the heavy alcohol in her veins.

But she was sober enough to know this man was attractive.

"A beaut' hm?" Rosalie asked, leaning into him.

The man chuckled. "Mhm. That means beauty—if you needa' translation for a Yankee such as yourself."

Rosalie hummed, her gaze dragging over his face as she looked at him through her lashes. "Well, I may be a Yankee, but I know when I'm looking at a handsome man, Mr…?"

"Walker. The name is Walker, Miss." He said with a suggestive grin.

They thundered into a room above the saloon, Walker kicking the door shut behind him as they moved in a flurry of lips, Rosalie's hands knocking off his rodeo hat and tangling in his long, brown strands. He spun her around and pushed her against the door, slotting his knee between her thighs. She breathed through the fast kisses, his lips chapped and rough against her own.

Her stomach flipped, an odd sense of longing that was foreign to her filling her stomach. It was strange, the alcohol combined with the burning desire of passion rushing through her as she made out with this random stranger.

She had kissed boys, as George was not the first. More than a kiss though… that territory was foreign to Rosalie.

It was a no-no to sleep with a man when she was unmarried. Especially as a woman. The only women who did that were paid whores. But the rush of heat as this random person looked at her as though she was something to be desired, something to be wanted, her stomach flipping at the possibility… It was tantalizing.

She wanted to feel something more than just grief and pain. The alcohol wasn't enough anymore.

Still pressed against the door, Walker pushed his hands underneath her shirt, his fingers rough as they slid against the soft, taut skin of her stomach. Rosalie breathed out as his fingers slid higher, before a hand slotted against her breast, squeezing and palming at the skin.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she breathed out a moan.

It was foreign and strange, but she couldn't deny that it felt good. Heat pooled in her chest, and for the first time in days, she felt a spark of excitement.

"You like that?" Walker asked in a low voice.

Rosalie grimaced, wondering why the hell he had to say anything. It completely pulled her out of the moment, the realization that this random man had his hands under her shirt and his knee slotted against her legs unfavorably. She just wanted to feel good, not hear him talk.

Rosalie resisted the urge to drunkenly roll her eyes and forced herself to respond. "Yeah." She breathed to make it more believable.

Completely oblivious to her annoyance, he chuckled softly and leaned down to her jawline. He planted kisses on her skin and gently nibbled at the edge of her jaw before moving further down to her open neck, trailing rough kisses along her skin.

Rosalie sighed and tilted her neck to give him more room, glad he shut his mouth.

Deciding to move things along, he scooped her up by the back of her thighs and carried her over to the bed. Rosalie let out a quiet yelp and he chuckled again. Their lips met in a flurry of passion, breathing heavily and moaning quietly. Rosalie could feel his hardness pressed against her as he lowered her onto the mattress, the bed bouncing as she landed on her back.

The kisses and touches of his rough hands were done with now. He didn't ask for permission or take it slow with her, thumbing at the buttons of her trousers and tugging them off along with her underwear, tossing them to the floor carelessly. He pulled his pants down to his knees and exposed his length, looking at her through heavy eyes as he huffed.

Rosalie breathed heavily, too intoxicated to think about how he was looking down at her like an animal, or the embarrassment of being partially naked underneath a man for the first time. The sight of his length was… a bit scary, and unlike anything she had seen before, as she didn't know how that was supposed to fit inside her. Would it hurt?

But these thoughts were mushy and incoherent. She couldn't think properly, and that was exactly how she wanted it.

He pulled at the buttons on her shirt and exposed her to the air, her arms still in the sleeves. He pressed open-mouth kisses to her breasts, biting at the skin and leaving small welts.

Rosalie whimpered, furrowing her brows at the pain and discomfort mixed with strange pleasure as his hand reached between her legs. He ran his fingers up her slick and chuckled at the sensation of her wetness, seemingly pleased at what he found. She fidgeted at the foreign sensation. She was unsure what he was going to do, but the fear was squashed as he pressed his thumb to the spot between her legs.

Rosalie gasped, groaning softly as he rubbed his thumb over the nub in slow circles. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before. It felt... good. It was the first speck of pleasure she had experienced amid the miserable grief that had plagued her thoughts relentlessly over the many months.

Walker slowly slid a finger inside her, before he added another, curving them against her inner walls. She groaned deeply, a pressure building inside of her as he moved his fingers. But it was over too soon, as this man didn't care about how she felt. Not really.

Walker pulled his fingers out and tugged her forward as she hung off the mattress. She skirted across the rough quilt, rubbing her skin uncomfortably as she was yanked.

Her legs dangled off the edge and he grabbed her under the back of her knees with bruising firmness. There was no question about if she was ready, or the thought of making her feel good. He slid inside of her and roughly began his pace. Rosalie gasped, her brows furrowed as she grabbed onto the sheets.

It felt good, but it also hurt a lot. The pain was a strange burning sensation, unfamiliar and intense, not something she was used to experiencing.

It didn't last long. With only a few thrusts, he pulled out and spilled himself on her stomach. Walker tugged his pants up and smacked her across the thigh with a laugh.

"That was good, miss. Find me again if you want another." He grinned at her, before leaving, shutting the door tightly behind her.

Rosalie stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling.

Slowly, she sat up, her face contorting in disgust at the white liquid coating her stomach. She grabbed a corner of the quilt and wiped off her front, ignoring the sniffles and quiet tears that had forced their way to the corners of her eyes.

Her entire lower body hurt. It felt good for a moment there—in a way she had never experienced, but shit, did that hurt. He was rough. Too rough, and it was almost unbearable for her to sit up fully.

Rosalie looked down between her legs, her brows furrowed as she noticed a redness staining the quilt. A few tears spilled from her eyes as she sniffled. She reached between her legs with her fingers and then held them to her eyes, her heart leaping to her throat at the blood coating them.

She had never felt more disgusting in her entire life.