The vibrations from the car and the steady caress of a warm hand keep lulling me back to sleep. My consciousness stirs when his hand disappears, and I peel my eyes open when I hear the sound of something flickering. I angle my head to him just as an orange flame lights Roman’s face and the embers of a cigarette come to life.
I scrunch my nose. “Why are you doing that?”
He gives me a sideways glance and lifts his shoulder. “Something I picked up.”
I shift my legs to point toward the window, stopping midway to fix the blanket draped over me before I remember that he tied my hands. Right. Dick.
“It’s gross.” I try to inch my legs as far away from his as I can as a small act of defiance.
“Keeps my mouth busy.” He takes a long drag and lowers the window to exhale. “Don’t you like it?”
I look at him, dumbfounded. “Didn’t I just say it’s gross?”
Amusement is written all over his face. “You never used to be this snarky.”
“Abandonment and betrayal do that to a person,” I snap.
I’m not sure whether it’s exhaustion, trauma, or character growth, but I’m not in the mood to deal with his shit. Day in and day out, I’ve kept my mouth shut at work and at home. The rage and frustration have built until it’s overflowing, and I don’t want to hold it back anymore. Especially not toward the person who helped create me.
I was nice to him and every other male I’ve encountered, and look where it got me? Harassed, assaulted, and tied up in the front seat of a beat-up car. If my snarkiness shocks him, then great. He’s been taunting and playing mind games with me for how long now? Add that to the fact that he left me right after earning the title of ‘my first kiss’ on my birthday—of all days—upset is an understatement.
Oh, let’s not forget that he murdered my foster family while I was asleep upstairs.
He’s always been great at avoiding the consequences of his actions, but here I am: consequences.
Unfortunately, anger and frustration are an ugly look on me, as I’m just now learning that the combination of all my bottled-up emotions makes me cry. Not the pretty, dainty cry, either. No, it’s the ugly kind of crying where you can’t breathe, and snot is running from your nose and into your mouth, so you’d rather no one is around to see.
Fuck him.
Roman’s throat bobs and his lips thin. The cigarette goes flying out the window and he grabs a stress ball, pretending like the car doesn’t reek like Greg did.
“I tried getting back to you.” He sounds tired. Good. He deserves to be. Jerk.
I sniffle. “Whatever.”
It’s freeing, not living life with the sole purpose of pleasing him. I have no desire to impress him or seek his validation. That ship has long since sailed, and the only thing that’s worth my time is my own opinion.
“I started reading.” I can see his lopsided grin out of the corner of my eyes. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking at him properly. Or seeing my silent tears. “By myself,” he tacks on.
“Good for you,” I bite out.
It wasn’t like I was planning to go back to the good ol’ days when I’d read to him. Or talk to him like we’re the bestest of friends and sit in the middle of the field while he braids my hair.
I angle myself even farther away from him until my knees hit the door. Droplets of scorching tears fall onto my t-shirt as I force myself to stare out of the window to focus on the gloomy trees.
My nose chooses that moment to sniffle and give me away. Tension crackles in the air between us. “After everything that’s happened, you must feel—’
“I feel nothing.”
He makes a noise at the back of his throat that tells me he definitely believes me. “Then why are you crying?”
I whip my head to face him and meet his stare. “Fuck you.”
“Tell me how you feel.”
Like the pieces of my heart—of my life—I put back together after he left have shattered all over again. “That is no longer any of your concern.”
“It is my concern, and it will always be my concern. Now answer the damn question. How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
The car screeches to a halt on the side of the road. His calloused fingers grip my chin, so I don’t have a choice but to look at him. “Never lie to me.”
“Why?”
“Hit me, scream at me, fucking shoot me if it makes you feel better—at least I know that feeling. But you don’t keep your feelings in, and you sure as fuck don’t lie to me. Got it?”
“Fine.”
Slowly, he says, “I understand you’re confused about—’
Is he fucking kidding me?
“Confused?” I echo. “I’m not confused. I’m devastated. I’m angry. I’m hurt. I have every right to be! And I’m not going to apologize if that upsets you.”
“Good.”
I stare at him blankly. “Excuse me?”
“You shouldn’t be apologizing for your feelings.”
And yet, all my emotions have given me is more pain. “I wanted to feel less. Then I did. And I realized that feeling empty hurts more than feeling full.” Maybe the problem wasn’t having emotions. It was caring too much.
I hate that I care about Roman.
I hate that I’m not even sad that Marcus and Greg are dead.
I hate that I’m not more upset that I’ve been taken away from the only life I knew.
“It’ll get better,” he says, with too much certainty.
“I don’t believe you.”
The look Roman gives me is full of promise. “Question whatever you want, but don’t you question what I would do for you.”
I scoff. “Yeah, like leave? I believe that.”
“It’s late.” He puts the car back into drive and gets back on the road, effectively dismissing me. “You’re tired. You need rest.”
Here I thought we were almost getting somewhere. “That’s what you say to a toddler, Roman. I’m an adult—a woman.”
“You can’t even drink yet,” he mumbles under his breath.
My mouth opens and then closes. Asshole. He has a point, even though I’m furious about it. You know what? At least I’m not crying anymore. Nothing smart or snarky comes to mind, and the best move I have is to give him the cold shoulder. I lift my bound wrists and throw out, “Congratulations on the child abuse, then.”
His knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “Get used to it, because one day you’ll be begging for me to tie you up.”
Heat flushes my cheeks.
Actually, no. Fuck him. He can’t just barge back into my life and start with the innuendos. My bound hands unbuckle my seatbelt before he can realize what I’m doing. Just as my hands reach the door handle, a steel grip yanks half my body to face Roman and over the center console, yelping when his warm lap meets my face.
I grunt and huff frustratedly, attempting to wrestle out of his grip, but he holds me in place effortlessly. The handbrake digs into my ribs, and the angle he has me in makes my hips ache.
I thrash harder, the car swerving when I bump the wheel. Roman rights the car with a single hand, his other one moving from holding my bound arms to tangle in my hair, chuckling to himself as if almost dying amuses him.
“I like you feisty.” He tugs at my hair, but keeps me in place. “It makes me feel all…hot and bothered.”
My breath catches in my throat when my body’s awareness turns on, and suddenly, I really wish I didn’t stupidly think I might be able to escape. Something solid and hard, hidden beneath his jeans, presses against my shoulder, right by my face.
“Gross,” I squeal before stilling. I wish I did find it gross. I really wish I could. But the combination of our compromising position with the memory of his fingers inside me hours ago is still fresh in my mind. My body feels like I’m waiting for the main course after a satisfying appetizer.
He laughs. “Why’d you stop?”
“What?” The viciousness I was hoping for is nowhere to be found in my voice. Worse, I sound like the sixteen-year-old version of me who lost all reason when he was around.
His fingers curl tighter in my hair, moving my head around like he’s testing out his grip and my compliance. I try to jerk away or push against him, narrowly avoiding the wheel and very much touching the hard thing that I should not be thinking about.
“That’s my girl,” he rumbles. “Keep moving around like that, and I’ll have to pull over.”
He lifts his hips so it’s pushed closer to my face. “Roman,” I warn.
“You tried doing something really fucking stupid. This is your punishment.”
Against my will, my body relaxes the second he starts massaging my scalp.
Traitor.
I wiggle around to throw his hand off, but stop breathing altogether when his dick twitches by my cheek, followed by his deep grunt.
“This Bella is so much more enjoyable,” he says, more to himself than to me. “We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I.”
I bite my tongue from the rush of heat throughout my body from his words. Anything I say will make him talk more, and the subtext of his comments might be the reason I implode.
Even though I don’t respond—not a grunt or a nod—he keeps blabbering about anything and everything. Current events, music, his exercise routine, and the latest bike models he has his eyes on.
My non-existent abs strain and my hands are asleep by the time the windy roads turn to gravel, the car tipping from side to side, vibrating and shuddering from the uneven terrain. My attempts at keeping still are proven useless as my body is jostled around in his lap. I’m stuck between a wheel and a hard place, with Roman holding me in a way that guarantees I hit the latter every time I’m bumped around.
The car stops, and he removes his hand from my head. I try to clamor away from him using my bound hands, reaching for the door handle before he can change his mind about letting me go.
“Ah-ah,” he taunts, grabbing my arm. “I hope you weren’t thinking of running.” The gravel in his voice sends my blood soaring.
Groaning, I try and fail to pull my arm back. “Did you think I would just stay with you?”
He drops his head to the side, a slow, saccharine smile spreading across his face. “I don’t think it, I know it.”
Looking out at the window behind me, I breathe in sharply. Indigo light covers our surroundings, casting an ominous glow onto the gnarled trees and overgrown greenery.
Familiar gray weathered boards stare back at me. Though the abandoned house looks completely different from the one in front of me, I remember coming here three years ago. Spider webs and mold no longer decorate the outside, the broken wooden planks are fixed, and the windows are exposed without any slats covering them. Insects buzz, cutting through the crisp morning air and my stupor as I stare at the house, then back at him.
“Let’s get you inside, Bella.”
I can’t say anything as he comes around to my side of the car with a duffle bag over his shoulder. He wraps the fallen blanket around me—as I remain mute and stupefied—and leads me to the entrance. He’s taking me into a creepy farmhouse… I should be yelling and screaming right now, begging him not to make me go in there.
I can barely get enough oxygen to my lungs, let alone say anything.
The boards beneath my feet have been scrubbed clean, the silver handle of the door glinting in the dawn as the key glides in smoothly, and Roman pushes the door open without a single squeak.
My feet follow as he guides me deeper into the place and plants me onto a chair. But my brain is struggling to comprehend what I’m seeing. There isn’t much furniture, just a couple of kitchen appliances, a dining table with two chairs, a love seat, and a pile of wood beside the fireplace. A few bottles of soda and energy drinks are scattered throughout the space, and empty takeout packets squeeze into the black plastic bags. The place smells like him: sandalwood and cinnamon.
It smells like home.
Although it’s what isn’t here that speaks volumes. Just like outside, there aren’t any cobwebs or dust. Patches of plaster and cut-up boards dot the walls, covering holes. The place isn’t just repaired; it’s lived in.
The cold settles into my bones, and a violent shiver tears down my spine. Perhaps it’s from the realization that this is where he’s been the whole time. Three hours away from me in the place where I last spent time with him.
The edges of my vision blur with tears. I’ve spent the last three years bitter, sad, and hurt while he was out here, living his life as a—what? Lumberjack? Farmer? What the hell was he doing out here all this time? What made him decide to become a hermit?
Honestly, I wasn’t sure where I thought he might have disappeared to, but I had some ideas: He left to live in another city with a baby momma or Cassie, or maybe he joined the mafia. I even thought he went for a ride and got lost or crashed and died.
Whatever it was, I didn’t deserve the radio silence that I received.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do this,” Roman whispers, voice veiled with strain.
I snap my attention down to him, scowling at him on his knees in front of me, untying my bindings. He’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, even covered in my foster-family’s blood. The screwed-up part of my brain likes that there’s blood on his face. Blood that’s only there because of me.
“But you did it anyway.”
Being in this place is messing with my head. I don’t know when he started fiddling with the ropes or when I decided to talk to him, but now I’m starved for answers.
He moves the ties from my chafed, burning skin, making me hiss.
“Sorry. Does it hurt?” he mutters again, undoing the knot. When I don’t answer, he says, “You left me no choice.”
I snatch my arms away and finish untying myself. The skin isn’t as raw as I thought, but there’s no missing the divots the rope left behind. “Don’t give me that crap. Do you know how many choices you had other than the ones you made tonight? You could have talked to me, sent me a text, oh, or I know, not ghosted me for three years.”
Roman twists a jar open, and I narrow my eyes at it.
He gives me a smile that I can’t quite decipher the meaning behind. “You’re talking a lot more now than you did before I left, so I’m going to say you’re a lot smarter now too.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” he says like it’s obvious. He reaches for my arm to apply the balm, but I don’t let him. “You and I both know you’re a different person now. I’m exactly the same, and you know goddamn well there was no way either of those two fuckers would continue breathing after the shit they did to you.”
“Oh, I knew if you were around, you’d do something about it. But don’t go telling me that you haven’t changed. The Roman I thought I knew wouldn’t have waited three years to step in.”
“I couldn’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “And I wasn’t ready yet.”
“You know what?” I take the balm out of his hand and drop the ropes onto his lap. “I don’t want to hear it.”
He grabs my hand when I sidestep him. “Bella, wait.”
“What?” I snap.
He digs into his pocket and drops my inhaler into my outstretched hand. “Two puffs, morning and night.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. After three years, he still remembers. “I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” He says it playfully, but all I see is red.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” It comes out sharper than I intended, and his flinch makes me feel bad about it. Regretting my words should be the last thing I do after what he put me through, but I’ve always hated seeing Roman hurt or upset. Especially when it’s over something I’ve said or done, when he’s only ever tried doing right by me. At the start, at least.
I can’t let it get to me. I’ve come too far and been through too much to be thrown back into the hole where I couldn’t live without Roman and his approval. Three years without him, and I’m physically better than ever. My mental health is another question.
This time, when I pull away, he lets me take a couple of steps. “Bella—’
I spin on my heel. “What now—’
His arms close in around me before I have a chance to jump back, fingers threading into my hair and face nuzzling into the crook of my neck. I go stock still, engulfed in the smell of iron. What the hell am I meant to do, pat his back? Tell him it’s alright? Knee him?
I should be doing the latter, but it’s taking every ounce of strength not to dissolve into his hold and hug him back. I know that if he keeps holding me, the ugly tears will come back.
“I’m so fucking sorry for hurting you. It was never what I intended. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Sincerity oozes from every word, and I’m not sure if I’m a fool for believing him.
Silence blankets us as the seconds tick on, his warmth seeping into my very core. There’s more to the touch than just a reprieve from the cold; it’s every night we spent together, curling beneath the covers, watching random videos, leaning on his shoulder as he draws while I read to him, and cuddling up to him as he talks about everything and nothing.
It feels like everything I lost three years ago that I never thought I would get back. I’m angry at him for ruining all of it, and I’m angry at myself for wishing we could go back to the way we were. But I’m not that girl anymore, and I never will be again. He made sure of that.
I let myself enjoy his hold for one more second, then I take a step back.
“I need to shower.” What I’m actually saying is I need to feel warmth that isn’t coming from him. I’m also hoping that he has plumbing set up so I don’t need to take a bath in a stream or something.
“Your stuff’s in our room.”
My stuff? What stuff?
Wait. Our room?
I walk faster, deciding that investigating is more important.
The room in question is nothing like the rest of the house. Where the lounge was barebones, this place is covered in drawings. Some are by him. Some by me. Some of me. The dates on his drawings of me span the last five years. He has too much pride in his drawings to write the wrong date.
Mismatching side tables sit on either side of the bed. On the right, closer to the door, an energy drink, knife, bottle of cologne, and random screws and bolts are strewn on the bedside table. On the opposite side, an inhaler, a single unopened box of tissues, my favorite hand cream, and a stack of romance books.
His and hers, just like the two dressers in the room. One with clothes sticking out of drawers and body spray on the top. I move closer to the other, where a mirror, hair ties, and ribbons are stored away in glass containers.
Tentatively, I open each drawer, one by one, until my heart sinks to the floor. When I get to the bottom row, I pull out the pair of jeans lying at the very top of the pile—the very pair I couldn’t find this morning.
With shaking hands, I search both drawers for everything I need to shower, but come up empty. Grumbling, I grab the first t-shirt and sweatpants I find, then dart into the bathroom next door. The faint smell of smoke wafts through the house, but it doesn’t overcome the smell of sandalwood and cinnamon clinging to the walls of this place.
How long has he been here? Why the hell did he bring me here? He doesn’t seriously think that keeping me prisoner will work out for him, right?
I don’t like that last question. I’ll fight and argue with him, but how long will it last until I’m back to the girl from before who looked at Roman with rose-tinted, heart-shaped glasses? My mind is at war between the memories of the last three years and the eleven before them, while my body craves his affection, a slave to his touch.
The only upside I’m letting myself see right now is that there seems to be plumbing in this horror house. The downside is that there’s no shower, just a ceramic bathtub that looks as old as time itself. Steam fills the room within seconds of me turning on the faucet.
I use the time waiting for the tub to fill to do a double take at the shampoo and conditioner under the sink. He got the same brand I use. It’s clear Roman has planned his kills and my stay. I’m scared to know what else he has in store for me.
There’s no window I can climb out of to make a run for it. Even if I got out of here, where would I go? The first time I came here, I didn’t see any houses for miles. It’s not like I can get the car keys off him, either. Plus, in my t-shirt and shorts, I’ll probably die of hypothermia before I find any sign of civilization.
The heat of the water thaws my muscles and makes my eyelids grow heavier, but I still feel cold. Fool’s hope is thinking this is all a bad dream. I’d be lying to myself because the only good dreams I’ve had in the last three years have all involved Mickey.
The feeling only gets worse as I slip into the clothes I grabbed in my hurry to get away from him.
My fingers trace the cold metal handle of the bathroom door, and I count to three, summoning as much strength as I can, because all I want to do is lock myself away and pretend that nothing beyond these four walls exists.
Steeling myself, I turn the handle and open the door into my new hell.
