except a bra,” I snarl, hands on my hips as I stare Roman down in the kitchen. Any evidence that he was just covered in another person’s blood is gone.
His grin spreads from ear to ear while he shrugs playfully. “Did I? That’s unfortunate.” Red burns my cheeks as he licks his lips, dropping his gaze to my chest, then back up. “If you need someone to hold them for you, I have two very capable hands right here.”
I clear my throat and fold my arms like it might make his hungry gaze disappear. “A bra, Roman. I need a bra because it’s cold.”
The fireplace and thick hoodie are nowhere near enough to compensate for how aggressively my nipples are pushing against the fabric from the chill.
His smile falters, but he recovers by shooting me a wink. “I can tell.”
“You’re not allowed to look at them.” I make myself as small as possible, wishing I sounded more assertive.
The corner of his lips hikes up. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” I raise my chin and look him dead in the eyes in defiance.
He stalks closer, and a slow, mischievous smile crawls across his face. “Careful, it would be so unfortunate if your panties were to go missing as well.”
I narrow my eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
It’s useless trying to ignore how close he is and how small I am compared to him. I’m caught in the web of his ravenous stare, the brush of his chest against my folded arms, freezing me in place.
He could bend down and kiss me or pull me into his hold for the third time today. The worst part about this is that my brain will scream at me, just like it is now, to run away from the predator in the black hoodie, but my body will develop a mind of its own.
“Try me.”
A lump lodges in my throat. There’s one thing that hasn’t crossed my mind since he came back: what he said to me three years ago. He was waiting until I was eighteen to seal the deal.
I’m twenty now, and they aren’t empty threats or mindless sexual jokes. He means everything that comes out of his sinful mouth.
I breathe a sigh of relief when whatever he’s cooking in the pan starts hissing, releasing me from my trance. My freedom is short-lived when I become transfixed with watching him move through the kitchen, opening cupboards and dishing plates. Tension lines his jaw, but there’s an ease to his motions, as if he has finally let his guard down.
“I promise you that you will never go hungry again.” I catch a glimpse of the well-stocked pantry, but I don’t say anything. “Sit.” He nods to the bacon and eggs on the table.
My protest drowns when my stomach grumbles. Eyeing him warily, I plant myself on the seat. The ire in my veins soars to a new high as he drags the chair from across the round table to sit by my side.
I narrow my eyes at him as he plops down and pretends like he isn’t so close that our chairs are touching. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Eating,” he says with a full mouth. “You should too.”
Whatever. I’ll allow this because I’m hungry.
My hand stills when it’s halfway to my mouth, a sudden terrifying thought coming to me. Who’s to say he didn’t slip some poison into my food? What if he knocks me out, and I wake up chained like a dog?
Not missing my hesitation, voice low, he says, “Eat the damn food, Bella.”
I drop my fork onto the plate. “You could have poisoned it.”
His brows hike up to his hairline. “And you think I would ruin perfectly good food by doing that? It would be easier to just use a rag or syringe.”
“If you’re trying to convince me that you haven’t tried to poison me, it isn’t working.”
He grins, only making me feel worse. “Just eat the food.” When I don’t, he rolls his eyes. “Do you think I would try to kill you after everything?”
“I don’t know. Do I need to give you a recount of the past twenty-four hours?” Tugging up my sleeves, I show him my wrists and the faint outline of the rope.
He exhales loudly and reaches over and helps himself to my plate. “See,” he says, bringing the fork to his mouth, chewing quickly, then swallowing. “No poison. Now, eat.”
Satisfied I’m not about to get drugged, I eat my breakfast, all too aware of his body close to mine. Every time I try to scoot my chair away, he drags me back to where I was. Even when I’m on the very edge of my seat, trying to put as much space between us, he smirks and shuffles closer until we’re practically sharing a single chair.
“Stop it,” I snap.
“Just let me love you,” he teases.
He meant it innocently, something for the both of us to laugh at or for me to fume over while he giggles to himself. But I’m not laughing, and fuming doesn’t begin to describe it.
“Love me? What a fucking joke, Roman. You left me.” I was compliant and complacent, letting my emotions bubble and boil. Now I’m exhausted and infuriated. There isn’t an excuse in the world to justify what he did.
I jump to my feet while glaring at him, hoping he can see that I want him to get up. I want to yell and scream. He has said many things tonight, but none of them answered anything. I want him to know that my soul hurts, and I don’t forgive him.
“Do you know what they did to me when you left? All the shit I had to put up with because I didn’t want to leave Jeremy alone with them? Marcus would grope me. I’d stand in the shower and hear the bathroom door rattling because he was trying to break in. I’d drop a plate and Greg would beat me. And that’s not even all of it!” I yell. “You promised me, Roman. You fucking promised that you wouldn’t leave me—that I’d never be alone. You said no one would hurt me. You told me no one would touch me. You’re a liar, Roman. I can’t believe I trusted you.”
I wish I could want him to suffer for everything he’s done, but I can’t. The reality is that hurting him will only hurt me, too, because I feel the sorrow that flashes through his eyes, and I can taste the guilt pouring out of his heart as if it were my own.
I want to hate him—I even said I hate him—but looking at him right now, sitting at eye level with my chest, what I’m feeling isn’t hate; It’s something much worse.
“I didn’t have a choice. I tried so hard to get back to you.” He’s already said this before, but it still means nothing to me. If he meant it, he would have done as he wanted and stayed with me. “Just sit down and let me explain.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Sit down, Isabella.” The sudden burst of rage vibrating from him has me flinching and doing as I’m told.
Even though his anger isn’t directed at me, my life of obedience replays through my head; every time Greg told me to get a beer, every time Marcus told me to sit by him, and all the times Maxim and Mikhail have laughed as they ransacked my bag, or when other kids would tell me to say certain words back when I still had a speech impediment.
‘No’ was never an answer because ‘No’ meant that I was asking to be struck.
I’m so tired of living like this, with my tail between my legs, scared of loud noises, and grateful for any scraps thrown my way, but I don’t know how to heal myself.
He rakes his hand through his hair. “I was in prison.”
Everything around me stills. “What?”
“After I dropped you home, I paid those twins a visit. I got shot and went to prison for two and a half years.”
I stare at him, mouth ajar. There’s no humor on his face, nothing to suggest he’s lying. “But… I tried calling you the next day?” are the only words I manage to form.
“I was in the hospital for a long time.”
“I… And…” I shake my head, my labored breaths making it harder to think. “This place?”
“I had a lot of time to plan what to do.”
Everything should be clear, but I don’t understand any of it, like I’m looking through a window on a cloudy day. “You never got in touch.”
“I sent you letters, but Marcus hid them, the fucker.”
“You never forgot about me,” I whisper.
“I could never leave you. There is no me without you.”
I keep waiting for the punchline or the joke, but it never comes. “You never called.”
“You changed your number.”
“You had a lawyer.” They—or the police—could have told me.
“I didn’t want to get you involved during the investigation.”
I gawk at him. “So it was better that I was kept in the dark?”
“You never looked or tried to find me.” It’s his turn to make the accusations.
“I didn’t think you’d be in prison!” I all but scream. “I checked your house, your work, everywhere! Your bike was nowhere to be seen—I thought you rode off without me.”
“I wasn’t just in prison, actually.” He shrugs. “I was in the hospital.”
What he said earlier finally sinks in. “You got shot,” I echo, staring at the patched hole in the wall in front of me.
“Mmhmm. In the chest.” I snap my attention back to him, and he has the audacity to look smug about it.
“You could have died?” I don’t know why I can’t string together more than a few words. He can’t be telling the truth, can he?
He nods, looking even prouder of himself. “They thought I wasn’t going to make it, but the thought of leaving you alone pulled me through.”
No.
This is a lie; he’s a liar.
He could have done so much to make sure I was okay. I spent days thinking he was dead, crying and suffocating under the weight of my guilt for being so angry at him.
Wait… the twins were away from school for a couple days after Roman disappeared. They looked worse for wear when they came back, but I didn’t think anything about it.
Two and a half years for assaulting—wait, would they have been minors? That can’t be the whole time.
My eyes widen. “Did you break out of prison?” I hiss under my breath as if someone might hear.
Throwing his arm over the back of the chair, he grins. “I got out early on good behavior.”
Bullshit. “You don’t know the meaning of that word.”
“I had good incentive.” Out of nowhere, under the dim light, his face hardens. “You left me too. Don’t forget that.”
Oh, now he’s angry? I bet he’s been holding on to that for a long time.
“I didn’t have a choice!” I was twelve and had to follow my guardians wherever they wanted to take me.
“And I did?” he counters.
I throw my hands in the air. “Absolutely, you did.”
“I love you, Bella. I never wanted to leave you, and I sure as fuck didn’t want to go to prison.” His livid stare sears into me, and I can’t look away.
“I don’t know what you told yourself, but you don’t love me, not really. You care about me, or maybe you’re obsessed, but you don’t love me.” Not in the way I love you—or did.
There are many kinds of love, and I loved him in every single way. Loved. Past tense. Although, I don’t think I know the meaning of the word, anyway.
“If you did, you wouldn’t have done what you did. You would have thought about me before going to the twins.”
“You’re the reason I went there. You’re all I thought about.” He speaks calmly, but there’s no missing his barely restrained frustration.
“No,” I bite out. “Don’t put that on me. You went there for yourself, too. You needed something to get off on, and you wanted to feel like you were doing something right. You did it because you wish someone was there to do it for you.”
He stays silent, which is somehow worse than his anger. If we were both screaming, maybe I wouldn’t feel bad for cutting into him. There would be something to make both of us bleed and become casualties of our own making.
But I shoved the knife in, and for the first time in my life, I’m going to twist it. Even if it hurts me too. “Actually, I should be thanking you.”
His brows lower. “Why?”
“Because I realized I don’t need you. I needed to learn how to be myself and be thrown into the water without anyone saving me. I learned I can survive without you.”
I don’t pull away when he reaches for my hand this time. “It was never about needing someone to save you. Everything has always been about having someone else there to make living a little easier.” He pauses before continuing, “You never needed me. You needed someone to love you for who you were. I love you—all of you.”
I swallow, not wanting to acknowledge those words. “I survived the past three years without you.”
“It’s about more than just surviving.”
“We need to go back, Roman,” I whisper. “There’s no one to look after Jeremy, and I have all my commissions I need to do.”
The smile he gives me is almost sad, but hopeful. “I organized for a decent family to take him in and packed all your supplies into your bag. We’re staying here.”
“I want to call him. He’ll be getting home from camp and he’s going to freak out.”
“I’m sorry, Bella.”
“I have to call him. I need to make sure he’s okay,” I insist.
He takes a deep breath. “The police will be monitoring his calls. They could start looking into him or take him out of his home.”
I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. I don’t want Jeremy to worry about me. “Where is he? How did you manage to get him a place when I’ve been trying to get him out of there for years.”
“An old woman I know named Margaret has a free room and an endless supply of Pop-Tarts,” he explains, even though it doesn’t make any sense to me. “Just give it a couple more weeks and I promise you can call him, okay?”
“Fine.” I stare at the space between us, counting the grooves in his wooden chair. This conversation isn’t over, but I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now.
The chair groans and skitters back across the floor when I get up. “I’m going to lie down. Please, don’t come into the room.”
Because I know he came into mine these past few months. The mornings smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon, and I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I know better now; like I know that every morning I’d wake up hoping it wasn’t my imagination.
