Screw it.
“Your ex?”
“Yeah. And he reminded me of all the reasons why he’s my ex.”
He says nothing, but his silence saystell meall the same.
“He used to say I was too much. Too soft, too heavy. Took up too much space. He tried to make me smaller both literally and figuratively.”
His jaw tightens. He’s pissed. I can’t help but wonder what Roman would do if Max magically appeared in front of him right now.
“And you believed him when he said those things?”
“I tried not to. But words can stick when someone says them often enough.”
Roman says nothing for several long moments. I like that about him—he thinks, considers. Really weighs his words before responding.
“You don’t belong to that man’s cruelty anymore,” he says quietly. “Nothing he says defines you. Onlyyoucan define yourself.”
“He thinks I’m an idiot, that I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.”
“And is that how you feel?”
I think of my situation, the house I live in with hidden rooms and cameras, guards and a Russian mobster watching over it all. “Maybe. But this job isn’t exactly normal.”
“True. But you’re here, you’re teaching a child to harness his talent by usingyourtalents. And you’re working to take care of your family. These are not small things.”
I don’t know what to say. I frown and look away without replying.
“You’re unsettled.”
“I’m angry,” I correct.
“Then come with me.”
“What, like earlier?” I ask warily.
“Doesn’t have to be. Could be different.”
Do I want different? All I can say for sure is that he’s right—I don’t want to be alone right now.
“Come.” He offers his hand.
Every rational instinct tells me to go back to my room.
Instead, I take his hand.
He leads me to the hallway. My door’s open a bit, and I realize this is my last chance to go back in there, shut and lock the door like I did last night.
But I don’t.
We go to his door, massive and made of oak. He pulls it open. The room on the other side is huge, dark, and expansive with two enormous arched windows looking out over the garden, the moon casting silver light through the space.
There’s a massive bed, a bookshelf with what appears to be a carefully curated assortment of classics, and a pair of dressers.A large, standing mirror is against the wall. It’s simple, clean, minimal—the type of orderly space a man like him, someone who carries so much, would want to end up in at the end of each day.
“Sit,” he says, gently motioning to the end of the bed.
I do.
