He doesn’t back away as he should. He doesn’t give me the space I need, but instead continues staring at me with those steel-grey eyes that darken every time his olive skin touches mine. As he moves only slightly, our bodies are still only a hair’s breadth away.
It feels far too good to let out the anger that’s been simmering in my veins for years. Only, I’m not sorry Roman is taking the brunt of it.
My voice comes out raw as my chest heaves. “I can’t believe I trusted you and gave you all of me.”Shove. “I regret ever laying eyes on you.”Shove. “I regret speaking to you.”Shove. “I regret ever meeting you.” This time, when I shove him, he doesn’t budge. His arms encircle my waist, and he presses his cheek against my head. “Ihateyou, Roman. I fucking hate you. You’re the worst thing to ever happen to me. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
I repeat myself.
Over.
And over.
I don’t know how long I spend yelling, kicking, and scratching. He takes every bit of it without letting me go, not even for a second, rubbing soothing circles on my back. His tender caress continues even when my body is drained of energy and all my fight evaporates, leaving me limp in his hold as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m back. There’s nothing that will separate us now.”
I’ve stopped hearing Marcus’s cry in the background. I don’t have the energy to care that my foster father is dead in the seat, only a few feet away from us. Or that the man who tormented me for the past three years is bleeding out.
I’m so exhausted from everything.
When will it be enough? When will I be able to truly live?
But only two words are swirling through my head:He’s back.
I want to believe him.
But Roman Riviera is a liar.
Chapter 2
ROMAN
14YearsAgo
Roman: 8 years old – Isabella: 6 years old.
I hate this part of the city as much as I hate the other.
I hate school. Doesn’t matter which school, I know I’ll hate it.
I hate Steve.
I think I hate Steve more than I hate Troy, and I’ve only known Steve for three weeks. I’ve learned he yells louder when I speak in a language he doesn’t understand. Idiot. Yelling tires him out—I think it’s because of the beer he drinks. He leaves me alone the sooner he starts yelling. Then I can run to the room I share with some boy half my size and another guy who’s older than us and thinks that makes him better.
He’s not better. I’m still teaching him this lesson.
I hate those two boys too, Josh and Perez, but since we all agree that we hate Steve more than we hate each other, we haven’t killed each other yet.
I’ll give myself another month in this place before I’m sent to another home. After being expelled from all the other schools on the city's eastern side, Margaret said they had no choice but to move me to another area where they can “accommodate” mydifferentneeds.
I’m not sure what that means, but at least I don’t hate Margaret—except when she gives me that look where her eyebrows pinch, and I know she’s about to sigh, “Again, Roman?”
She tries to make me talk about my feelings. She also likes to bring me snacks. I know it’s a bribe because I’ll do anything for a Pop-Tart.
I’m always so freaking hungry.
Even if she feeds me, all adults are stupid. She’s as useless as the rest if she can’t do anything about Steve. Or maybe she doesn’t want to.
But I heard Steve say a couple of words to describe his wife that I think works well for Margaret (sometimes):Fucking Bitch.I don’t know what it means.
Maybe I’ll ask the teacher about it.
