Текст книги "Skin of a sinner"

Автор книги: Avina St. Graves

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Chapter 18

ISABELLA

“You brought me everything 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.

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Chapter 19

ISABELLA

Amethyst light pours through the slit in the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. Objects take shape, clearing and solidifying the more I blink.

Faces come alive in the sketches lining the walls, staring down at me as I sink deeper beneath the covers. The heavy blankets aren’t enough to keep my lungs from burning with each inhale of frigid air.

A loud whack clears away any prospect of going back to sleep. My muscles groan as I peel away from the warm bed, examining the room.

I’m not sure what the logic behind my thoughts is, but ever since I got here, I haven’t needed assistance to get to sleep. I never took Xanax religiously. There was just an added comfort of having it beside me to take whenever I thought I’d need it. Yet, when I got here, it didn’t even cross my mind. Instead, I’ve caught up on three years’ worth of sleep in two days.

Roman didn’t come in after breakfast yesterday, or when he dropped food and snacks in front of the bedroom door today. There was also a single red rose that showed up. It had a weird stain, but I still left it on my bedside table.

His scent is woven into the fabrics all around me. Though he’s not in the room, one thing in this room is his tell: the heater in the corner.

Roman’s respect for my personal space usually ends where my physical well-being begins. Any attempt at abiding by my request for privacy—or even pretending to abide by it—would be thrown out the window the second he sees I’ve turned off the heater.

Another whack forces me out of bed. I angle my head toward the noise beyond the window and muster the emotional and physical strength to tear myself from any semblance of comfort. Goosebumps erupt on my skin when the blankets fall away, and I’ve never moved so fast to shove on more layers.

The frigid air makes my lungs rattle in my chest, so I reach for the inhaler waiting for me on the bedside table, and inhale two deep breaths of the medication.

I trace my fingers over one of Roman’s jerseys I’ve kept for the past five years. The tag has been cut off, as he does with all his clothes. Tracing the bleached orange lines, I still remember how he bit his lip and huffed and puffed about painting his favorite black hoodie with bleach.

Sucking in my cheeks, I tamp down the memories and look around the rest of the room, my shoes lining the bottom of the wardrobe floor, the rose on my bedside table, and the drawings of me all over the walls.

Suited up, though far from mentally prepared for whatever the rest of the day has in store for me, I leave the room. The fireplace rages in the living room in front of a mountain of pillows, cushions, and blankets. A plain white sheet now hangs on the wall above a projector.

I open the door with one last solidifying—and maybe dignifying—breath. The frozen air assaults every inch of exposed skin, almost causing me to tuck my tail and run back inside. Winter is a few months away, but I could be convinced it’s here now.

I am many things, but I am most definitely not built for the cold. I am wearing four layers, and I still think I might die.

And then there’s Roman in a thin, form-fitting long-sleeve.

Fuck him and his warm blood. And his thick forearms and defined shoulders, along with his slender waist, how the veins in his hands move as he grips the wood, and how his inky black hair whips around his face. Or how he grunts with each swing. And—oh God, why does he have to look so good chopping wood?

I’ve seen him elbows deep in grease, head in an engine, breaths heaving as his muscles ripple and tense, and—images of blood splattering across his face ruins whatever fantasy I had playing around in my head. For good reason. The last thing I need right now is to be lusting after him.

Mickey looks so out of place here. He’s got that bad boy biker thing going on, and he’s also a piercing short of falling into the rocker category.

Another cut of wood joins the pile on the ground, making the pieces tumble over. Butterflies erupt in my stomach when he looks up at me, eyes shining as he smiles. That’s the thing about Mickey: his eyes will meet mine in a crowded room every single time.

Wrapping the jacket tighter, I rock on my heels. “I don’t know much about fireplaces or natural heating, but I’m pretty sure you’ve cut enough to last an entire year.”

It’s too easy to fall into how we once were and forget everything that came after. Though his response pulls my head back into reality.

“That’s the point.”

Roman Riviera isn’t a flannel and overalls type of man, and I sure as hell am not a gumboots and chicken coop type of girl. I am not staying out here for a year.

“So what? I’m meant to just live here? Live off the land?”

Amusement is drawn all over his face, but he averts his gaze back to the wood. “I have a car if we need something, and my bike’s in the shed. No one is coming back for this house. The world is ours,” he says coolly, as if there is no other possible answer.

“I can’t live with you. I can’t share a bedroom with you. I can’t—"

“Why not?” he asks, lining up another chunk of wood.

“We’re just—"

The ax comes down, splitting the trunk in two, then his searing eyes snap up to mine. “Call us friends. I dare you.”

My heart ricochets against my ribs. “I have a life.” Another whack thunders through the clearing, and I flinch.

I look at the ground, hearing how weak I sound. What life? The only person who might miss me is Jeremy. There’s nothing there—in that town or home—for me.

“Do you want to run?” The deep tenor of his voice rattles my bones.

I match his steps. He moves forward, and I move back until there’s nowhere left to go with the house pressed against my back. I’m prey, falling perfectly into the predator’s trap.

“Run, Princess.” His breath fans my face. “Don’t let me catch you.”

Falling victim to his snare, I’m unable to do anything but stare into crystal eyes. Ones that have gotten me through countless meltdowns and filled the space my parents left behind. I’m enraptured by the shape of the same lips that have told me how beautiful he thinks I am and filled the silence so I don’t need to listen to my own screaming thoughts.

Tender hands wrap around the back of my neck. Not to hold me in place, but to remind me just how helpless I am to him.

The warmth emanating from Roman is better than any fire, and he could make me burn hot with a single word. Just like he has with the reminder of the last time I tried running from him.

Frigid air kisses my skin, and a shiver travels down my spine. “Honestly…” I say breathily. He leans forward, lips tipped upward in excitement and satisfaction. “I’ve run more in the past forty-eight hours than I have since high school P.E. Please, not right now.”

I expect him to manipulate me into a cat-and-mouse game or make my insides swirl as they did when his fingers were inside me. Instead, a different type of heat unfurls in my belly as he throws his head back and laughs.

It’s a stunning sound that ripples through me like a poison, one that hurts every level of my being. I never thought I’d hear that sound again.

Ruining the moment, my body spasms from the onslaught of cold, and I duck out from under him before he gets the chance to fawn over me.

I’m a grown woman. I can deal with a little cold.

Or a lot.

Whatever. My point still stands.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I roll my shoulders back and bend my knees, piling as many pieces of wood as possible. “Whatever I want.”

The heat of his stare burns into my back. “Okay, Miss Independent, pile half of it over there, then get your ass inside and out of the cold.”

As much as I want to prove myself to him and keep piling up, my ass very much wants to get inside. Scrambling to stack the wood, I all but run inside and start another pile next to the fireplace. I hiss as the last one falls to the very top. This is why I can’t live off the land. Stupid things happen, like getting a splinter while cleaning up.

I’m pulled onto my feet before I can inspect the damage.

“Let me see,” he says as he grabs my hand.

Miss Independent in me curses as I surrender control to him. Having someone else look after me feels so foreign, yet familiar. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

By what has to be magic, he gets the splinter out on the first go, and then looks up at me with so much concern—as if I was the one who got shot.

“Thanks,” I mutter and pull away from his orbit. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I stare at the pillows stacked on a fluffy rug. Where do we go from here? I can’t live this type of life when there’s so much I haven’t seen. I refuse to exchange one prison for another.

“Are you okay?”

The look on his face says that he’s asking about more than just my finger or if I’ve defrosted from my short rendezvous outside.

Sighing, I sink down onto a pillow, and he follows suit, stationing himself directly across from me at an arm’s reach.

“No, Roman, I’m not.” He cringes at the name. “You can’t expect me to forget the last three years.”

The vermillion light from the fire colors the sides of our faces, heating our skin. I shed my jacket and fold it to the side.

“Let it out.”

I suck in a breath. “I was hurt, and I felt betrayed. But most of all, I was so angry at you. Furious. I knew you would leave me eventually, but I didn’t expect you to do it when you did.” I stare at my empty hands. “I spent so long being angry that I realized I was actually feeling grief. In my eyes, you died, Roman. But in my heart, you were living a life without me.” My vision blurs as I look up at him. “I thought the sadness would last a lifetime.”

We all have demons. He happens to be mine.

“Why would you think I’d leave you, Minnie?” His voice wraps around me in a tight embrace, and the nickname wedges itself inside my heart. I’m sure I would tell him anything that he asks at this moment.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I laugh dryly to myself. “Everyone leaves me.”

“Not me,” he says. I fix my attention to our intertwined hands. “Never me.”

I don’t want to tell him all the other reasons I thought he’d leave. If he’s the type of person to discard me for another woman or something as trivial as age, then I should be glad he left. No one deserves that sort of treatment.

Do I tell him that, deep down, I know he’d never leave me—now, at least? Part of the reason he was in prison was because of me. Then every second since he’s gotten out has been dedicated to me. From my favorite snacks in the cupboards, to the soaps, and my Mickey Mouse doll that appeared on the bed after my shower. Hell, even doing up a whole house just for us.

“I should be grateful for becoming stronger since you left,” I start, because he needs to hear it too. “But am I supposed to be happy that I lost a part of myself to become that way?”

He squeezes my hand. “I disagree.” Frowning, I look up at him. “You didn’t lose yourself. You found the part of you that was built to survive. The part you thought you lost is still there; it’s learning and waiting for you to let her out again.”

The voice that usually screams at me to fight is silent when he pulls me onto his lap and wipes away a fallen tear. When did he become such a therapist, anyway?

“I’ve grieved so much; for my mother, the father I never had. I kept thinking it wasn’t right, that they should be here by my side, keeping my heart full. But life gives, and it takes.” My bleeding heart hates the truth, and it aches every day. But maybe saying it out loud will make my heart understand the real world. “It wasn’t right, but it’s what it’s meant to be.”

Slowly, he rocks us with his arms wrapped around my waist. He’s heard me talk about my missing parts before, but he’s never been one for words. Not really, at least.

His soft breaths ruffle my hair as he says, “There’s no point living if you don’t feel alive. I’m going to make you a promise; you’re going to wake up every day knowing that your heart is full and you have someone who will never leave your side. It’ll be my life’s goal to make you so happy that you shit rainbows and eat butterflies. You’ll never live feeling like you need more.”

“Please, don’t hurt the butterflies.” We both chuckle half-heartedly, and a sad smile curls across my face. “I always knew you would carry a part of me with you wherever you go.” I bite the inside of my lip and continue, “Because you took it from me. I knew you cared about me and lent me every piece of your heart that you had. But there’s a quote I once read: Even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt.”

He rearranges us so that his eyes bore into mine. Calloused fingers wrap around my wrist to bring my hands to his face.

“Do you feel me, Isabella?”

I nod.

“I am skin and bone, living and breathing. I am not a ghost. Most definitely not to you.”

My fingers move on their own. At my touch, his eyes slide closed as he shivers. Stubble prickles the skin beneath my hand, traveling up his cheek and over his jaw.

Opening his eyes, he says with a pained whisper, “I missed you so much, Bella. I woke up every morning, counting down the minutes until I could go back to sleep so I could see you.” Soft, dark hair brushes against me as he lowers his head to mine, taking all the air from my lungs. “In prison, I couldn’t keep anything physical. No pictures, no bracelets, or drawings. But everything reminded me of you, and I finally understood the meaning of looking under the same moon.”

“What?” Roman Riviera doesn’t quote classic literature.

Wearing a grin, he shrugs innocently. “I told you I started reading.”

That’s life with Mickey: easy. He gets into the deep end and always finds a way out. But there’s one thing I almost forgot; he’s always kept me afloat.

“R-18 books?” I ask, plucking at the carpet.

A smile cracks across his face, and the old wooden floor creaks beneath our weight. “We call that contraband in prison.” His hot breath feathers against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “But maybe those books of yours taught me a thing or two.”

My red cheeks greet him as he pulls away with a mischievous grin, running a hungry eye from my chest to my unblinking eyes. Rising to his feet, he offers me his hand.

“Come on, let’s make dinner.”

I hesitate. Just for a second, but it’s enough for him to notice. The tiny flicker of hurt morphs into a place where only darkness lies, making me question whether I made the right choice by taking his hand. But how could something bad make my heart feel so light? It’s beating without sound, pumping blood without pain. It’s freeing.

We move around the kitchen, completely in sync, knowing who’s cutting, cooking, or seasoning without needing to say a single word.

This time, when Mickey pulls my seat next to his, I don’t try to move away. Not when he cups my chin to face him, either. I’m starved for his touch and willing to accept whatever crumbs he’s willing to give me.

“They deserve what they got,” he says suddenly, expressionless.

I breathe in slowly and nod. He doesn’t need to say exactly who he’s referring to because the answer is everyone he’s ever hurt in my name. “They did, but what will I ever learn if you keep fighting my battles for me?”

His expression turns into one of disapproval. I snap upright, not expecting when he grabs my legs and drapes them over his thighs, acting like this is a perfectly natural thing to do at the dinner table. I shouldn’t live for simple things, like touching each other under the table.

“You shouldn’t be in a battle to begin with. Wars aren’t fought alone.”

I shouldn’t like a lot of things about Mickey, but when he says words in a way that seems like I’m the only thing that could ever matter to him, I’m ready to be any girl he wants me to be.

Even if it hurts me.

I can’t let myself be that person anymore.

Metal clinks against porcelain, and I mutter, “I’m broken, Roman.”

It doesn’t matter what he says about being this amazing, beautiful person in his eyes, I don’t see it. And I’m tired of living inside of a shell.

“But you’re not fragile,” he says pointedly, lacking the somber tone I feel in my heart.

“Despite everything I’ve gone through, I’m still a girl missing her mother.” I narrow my eyes at him. How can he pull me from my emotions with the curl of his lips? Try as I might, this man still owns me. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you know you’re not just a girl.”

I shake my head, hiding behind a curtain of fallen hair. He’s doing it—wearing down the walls I built around myself to keep me safe. Each time he speaks, he reminds me why I fell in love with him to begin with, and why I’ve only ever felt alive around him. These past three years, I wasn’t just longing for freedom; I wanted to feel like I had a life that’s worth living.