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.