A rose, the petals crumpled from my foot. “Oh, fuck,” I mutter, bending down to pick up the rose. He snipped the thorns, preventing it from cutting me. But it doesn’t matter—this rose hasn’t been deprived of one’s pain. Dripping off the petals and onto my boot is fresh blood. Arch is gone, and all that’s left of him is a bloody rose.
Welp.
