Soulmates.
And nothing else.
CHAPTER THREE
AMIRA
Iwould love nothing more than to live far away from the judgmental eyes of the customers in the market, but the ocean?
Another state would be fine, or better yet, another country.
“How about Canada? We could be Canadians.”
“I’m a wanted criminal, angel. I can’t get a passport,” he whispers in my ear as I grab a cart from the rack.
Right.
“We’ll talk about this later,” I say, pulling my grocery list out of my bag as he takes the cart from my hands.
Roman and I have been in Solime Canyon for a little over two months, and still, the residents here gawk like we’re animals at the zoo. Of course, it doesn’t help that we moved into my mother’s home right out of the blue. Or that she suddenly seemed to disappear.
I never got around to registering my mother as dead. There are too many documents I need, and I don’t have the stomach or heart to go through her personal belongings just yet.
I feel Roman tense beside me as a couple of older gentlemen let their eyes linger on me a little too long. Giving his arm a firm squeeze, I silently beg him not to make a scene.
I can handle stares. As long as they don’t touch me, then I’ll be okay.
“Stupid fuckers better keep their eyes in their fucking head, or I’ll have no issue fucking them up where they stand.”
“Keep your voice down. We don’t need any more attention than we already have,” I say in harsh, angry whispers.
Roman finally does as I ask and simmers down, the muscles in his forearms relaxing under my grip as he pushes the cart through the aisles.
I always wonder what the point of making a list is since Roman never seems to follow it. He just grabs whatever he wants and throws it in the basket.
“We don’t need that,” I say, watching him stick two boxes of cookie cereal in the cart, stacking them on top of each other.
“Do you want me to be happy?”
I’m taken aback by his question, jerking my head at an angle while I answer. “Of course, I do.”
“Then we need these,” he retorts, giving me a pointed look before taking the cart's handle and rolling it away.
Someone enters as we turn to leave, crashing their cart into ours.
“Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t see you coming!”
I look into the pitch-black eyes of a tall, muscular man in his early fifties and take a step back. His deep, husky voice sends shivers of dread down my spine.
No, no.
This isn’t real.
He isn’t real!
My breathing increases to a dangerous tempo, the muscle beating furiously against my rib cage until a throbbing pain starts in my sternum.
Roman steps between the stranger and me, shielding me from his stare while I grip my tensing throat in my hand.
