“It’s like you’re begging to be punished.” The sentence is laced with hope that I’ll fight him again, letting me know how serious he is by pushing his bulge against my stomach.
“What—" My eyes widen when his free hand joins his other, and something soft wraps around my wrists. The door groans as I shift to glance at the black rope Roman is binding my wrists with.
Mouth hanging open, I notice he's not using just any rope. It's not the kind found in a department store, and it's certainly nothing like the abrasive hemp rope he used on Marcus. The realization that he's using silk rope kicks me in the gut.
Roman knew I would fight him, knew I would try to run. He planned it all. The mask, the method of torture and death, the different ropes, the message he left when I arrived home yesterday.
I don’t know who this man is. Roman never planned ahead when spilling blood was involved. He was impulsive—acting first, avoiding consequences later. Which begs the question, what else does he have planned?
“Don’t do this,” I beg.
I can see the concentration in his pinched brows as he works to tie my wrists firmly, but not to the point of pain, as I thrash.
“I don’t want to do this, Bella. Do you think I want to hurt you?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Yes.”
The muscle in his cheek pulses as he pauses and looks down at me. “Never.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He tenses, and something flashes in his eyes too quickly for me to figure out what it is.
I look behind him toward the kitchen, where two dead bodies remain. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I murmur.
He tilts his head, raking his gaze over my face as the corner of his lips curves upward. “You could have stopped me.”
“How?”
His eyes soften, and I see the man I used to know for the first time tonight. The one who reserved all his genuine smiles for me and would only truly laugh if it was just the two of us alone.
Roman’s voice is dangerously low. “I would do anything you tell me to.”
I swallow and hold his stare, hoping he will see whatever I’m feeling so I don’t need to admit it to myself. “Let me go.”
“Anything but that.”
“Roman,” I plead.
Any evidence of the man I knew slips away with a flash of hurt, quickly replaced by his menacing grin. “Come on. It’s just you and me from now on.”
He throws me over his shoulder, knocking the wind from me before I can say anything else.
“Put me down,” I hiss, hitting his toned back with my bound wrists.
He chuckles, and I yelp when he slaps my ass. “Fuck, I missed you.”
My legs flop against his chest, and my dark hair sways with his movements. What’s worse is that I miss him too. I miss his voice, the nicknames, the constant entertainment, and the way he looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
He grabs a duffle bag off the floor, opens the door, clicks the internal lock, then shuts it behind him. I squirm against his shoulder, still beating his back and kicking his front, growling obscenities under my breath.
But if I’m completely honest with myself, it’s all for peace of mind that I tried—that I wasn’t an entirely willing victim. We both know the truth. It’s right there in front of us and undeniable under the cloudy night sky: If I truly wanted to be free of him, I would be.
I could scream, and everyone around would hear. Other than us and the insects of the night, there isn’t a sound to be heard in the less-than-safe neighborhood. But still, I stay silent as he carries me through the empty street.
Roman’s steps are so leisurely and confident that even the best detective could be convinced he isn’t abducting someone. I manage to prop myself up on his shoulders to watch the place I lived for the past four years shrink in the distance until it’s hidden behind trees. It’s hard to believe everyone is fast asleep in their beds, unaware of the carnage in house number thirty-four.
Roman drops me to my feet beside an unassuming pickup truck, clamps his hand on my arm, and tsks. “Don’t even think about it.”
I frown at him. I wasn’t even thinking about running; I was just waiting for him to unlock the truck so I could step inside. What is wrong with me?
The second he opens the car door, I rip myself from his grip and slip inside. The more he touches me, the more my anger toward him wanes, and I deserve to be angry for everything that’s happened.
He’s breaking my resolve too quickly.
When the door shuts, I’m left alone in the quiet darkness of the car. Suddenly, everything comes crashing down—the adrenaline, the nerves, the ache between my legs, and the tender skin beneath the ropes. A single tear trails down my cheek, and I wipe it away before he can see.
This is really happening.
Roman used to be terrible at chess and sub-par at mind games. He’d prefer inflicting the type of pain that comes from his hand and a well-chosen weapon. But that’s part of the problem; he used to be that way. The person who smiled at me when I first came down the stairs earlier tonight is all man. He’s physically changed in ways I can’t even begin to describe, with broader shoulders and a sharper jaw. What about on the inside?
Has this man mastered owning the board and come to play with a different type of toy? Something else he can use and discard once he’s bored.
The air electrifies when he drops himself into his seat with the same grace as a lion, humming an unknown tune as the car comes to life. Roman drives us away from the neighborhood and onto one of the back streets, tapping the wheel and filling the silence with his sounds.
He’s relaxed and at ease.
He’s fucking crazy.
If it weren’t for the evidence of his brutality splattered on his face, I wouldn’t believe him if he told me about what he just did.
There wasn’t a single secret between us for almost twelve years, and now I don’t even know how to speak to him and break the silence. The dynamic between us has shifted. It’s no longer the princess and her knight. It’s something far simpler: the prisoner and her captor.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask when I can’t stand listening to any more of his goddamn humming and tapping.
“Home.” He doesn’t hesitate with his answer, and his tone has an almost patronizing edge, like his response was a given.
“You just took me from it.”
He snorts. “That was a house, but it wasn’t your home.” Roman adjusts himself in his seat and checks the rearview mirror. I’m guessing it’s to see if we’re being followed. “Our home is wherever we make it.”
Our. We. He’s talking like someone who isn’t just going to disappear again.
“You went too far.”
“No amount of blood spilled will ever be too much for you.”
“When will it end?”
He smirks. “When I’m in a grave, and even then, Hell won’t keep me from you.”