“Give me names, and we can go.”
“Mickey, no, I—"
“And what’s the plan? How are you planning on stopping him if he bothers you again? You gonna hit him?”
I’m about to say yes, but we both know it’ll be a lie. I’d do it for Jeremy, maybe even Janelle, but I’ll be an unfortunate casualty.
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Them?”
One person, and I may get away with withholding a name. He’d just watch from a distance and wait until I crack. Two? He’d burn the place down to find out.
“Tell me, has that ever worked on me? Has anyone ever talked me out of knocking their lights out?”
No. Maybe I could, but it’d only be damage control. Instead of five broken bones, it might only be two.
“Is this the first time they’ve bothered you?”
I stare at the spot between his collarbones where the skin dips.
“You can fucking set out tea and write them damn letters. There isn’t a thing that will make them stop coming for you. They’ve tasted blood and made you cry. They thought they won, and they’ll keep coming back because picking on someone smaller is the only time they feel like men. They need to know they’ve lost—and they did as soon as they touched you.”
I know he’s right. I hate that he’s right. I’m weak. If this were the wild, I would have died a long time ago if it weren’t for Mickey. Natural selection would have taken me out. He doesn’t just save me or stop the harm from coming. He helps me pick up the parts and put them back together again.
“Mikhail and Maxim Androv. They’re twins.”
“Good,” he says.
I know what will happen when I say their names, and I have absolutely no remorse or guilt. What does it say about me that I won’t even beg Roman to go easy on them or not approach them at all? What’s wrong with me that when he says “good,” I couldn’t agree more?
“Where’s your phone?”
The sudden change of topic gives me whiplash. “What?”
“Your phone. Where is it?”
“I, uh.” Why can I barely string together a sentence around him? What is happening to me? I clear my throat. “In my bag.”
“Turn around.” He doesn’t wait for me to do as I’m told. He grabs my shoulder, spins me away from him, takes my phone out of the front pocket, turns me back in place, and then places the device in my hand. “The next time something happens, you call me. Even if it’s just to ask which shirt you should wear or if you're out of snacks. I don’t give a shit if I’m working, sleeping, or half-dead; you grab that phone, and you call me. I’ll pick up whatever you need, even if I’m six feet under, Bella. There isn’t a god in existence that could stop me from getting to you. So you pick up that phone and call me before you even think about calling the cops. Got it?”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. I’m not sure why I’m surprised to hear any of this when those are the only words I’d expect from Mickey. I guess I’m still surprised whenever someone is there for me when I need it, because the only other person who has ever supported and cared for me was my ma.
I nod. Within a split second, the anger in his eyes is gone, shoved beneath the surface, his usual grin taking the scowl’s place.
“Come on. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us.”
Chapter 10
ISABELLA
3 Years Ago
Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.
Roman is probably kidnapping me right now. Even if it weren’t a maybe but a definitely, I probably wouldn’t put up as much of a fight as I should.
I have absolutely no idea where we’re going. It’s not like I can ask him since we’re on a motorbike. I don’t need to see the dash to know we haven’t been going anywhere near the legal speed limit for the past three hours. All I know is that my ass hurts, my hands are cold, and my back aches from gripping onto him for dear life.
We pass a series of back roads and forestry that give my stomach a run for its money, and I almost fall off once or twice.
If this is a kidnapping, I will fight him tooth and nail for the two things keeping me in place: graduation and Jeremy. Because maybe I’ll have an epiphany on what I want to do with my life once I walk onto the stage and have the certificate in my hands.
There’s not a single thing in the world that would make me leave Jeremy with those horrible people. If I could, I’d take him in and raise him myself, but what type of life would he have? Best-case scenario, I manage to convince state services to move Jeremy to a half-decent home.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally slow down, only to groan when he turns us down a dodgy driveway, passing through a busted gate coated in rust hidden behind excessive overgrowth. I can barely see the gravel beneath all the weeds and fallen leaves.
The ground crunches beneath the wheel, and I hold back a gag.
There are probably a bunch of animal carcasses hidden under there.
Yuck.
Maybe he isn’t kidnapping me, but skipping straight to murder. I probably wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to turn this into a suicide pact.
My only assurance that he will continue wreaking havoc for at least one more day is the fact that Mikhail and Maxim don’t have a single mark bestowed upon them by Roman in the name of my honor.
Or maybe it’s Mickey trying to avenge me.
Or maybe it’s his excuse to punch something. Not like he’d need to use me as an excuse. If he feels like it, he’ll just do it.
My grip around his waist grows tighter as the bike maneuvers around potholes and angry-looking bushes. I pray to God I don’t see a dead animal. That may just ruin my mood more than the twins did.
We finally come to a stop in front of a rickety old house that looks like it hasn’t seen life in years. He kills the engine and doesn’t waste any time dismounting, shucking off his helmet, and grinning at me like a kid who is proudly showing off his art project to a parent.
Hesitantly, I unclip the helmet and slide off the bike, landing on the ground with a thud. The muscles in my thighs protest, and I throw my hand back to keep balanced. Mickey has the audacity to look pleased about my suffering.
Ass.
“Do you like it?” he asks in the same voice Jeremy uses when he pretends to seek your approval, but is really just fishing for compliments because he knows it’s good. Although, I don’t think that’s a word I would associate with the horror house in front of me.
Cobwebs hang across the deck like layers of chiffon, and darkness hides between the cracks of broken wooden beams, moldy and gray from neglect. Slats are nailed over windows, making the place look even more unwelcoming.
There’s no doubt in my mind that someone was murdered here. If I start digging around, I’m sure I’ll find some bodies that didn’t make it to the coroner’s office.
How the hell did Mickey find this place?