“I promise you that you will never go hungry again.” I catch a glimpse of the well-stocked pantry, but I don’t say anything. “Sit.” He nods to the bacon and eggs on the table.
My protest drowns when my stomach grumbles. Eyeing him warily, I plant myself on the seat. The ire in my veins soars to a new high as he drags the chair from across the round table to sit by my side.
I narrow my eyes at him as he plops down and pretends like he isn’t so close that our chairs are touching. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Eating,” he says with a full mouth. “You should too.”
Whatever. I'll allow this because I'm hungry.
My hand stills when it's halfway to my mouth, a sudden terrifying thought coming to me. Who’s to say he didn’t slip some poison into my food? What if he knocks me out, and I wake up chained like a dog?
Not missing my hesitation, voice low, he says, “Eat the damn food, Bella.”
I drop my fork onto the plate. “You could have poisoned it.”
His brows hike up to his hairline. “And you think I would ruin perfectly good food by doing that? It would be easier to just use a rag or syringe.”
“If you’re trying to convince me that you haven’t tried to poison me, it isn’t working.”
He grins, only making me feel worse. “Just eat the food.” When I don’t, he rolls his eyes. “Do you think I would try to kill you after everything?”
“I don’t know. Do I need to give you a recount of the past twenty-four hours?” Tugging up my sleeves, I show him my wrists and the faint outline of the rope.
He exhales loudly and reaches over and helps himself to my plate. “See,” he says, bringing the fork to his mouth, chewing quickly, then swallowing. “No poison. Now, eat.”
Satisfied I’m not about to get drugged, I eat my breakfast, all too aware of his body close to mine. Every time I try to scoot my chair away, he drags me back to where I was. Even when I’m on the very edge of my seat, trying to put as much space between us, he smirks and shuffles closer until we’re practically sharing a single chair.
“Stop it,” I snap.
“Just let me love you,” he teases.
He meant it innocently, something for the both of us to laugh at or for me to fume over while he giggles to himself. But I’m not laughing, and fuming doesn’t begin to describe it.
“Love me? What a fucking joke, Roman. Youleft me.” I was compliant and complacent, letting my emotions bubble and boil. Now I’m exhausted and infuriated. There isn’t an excuse in the world to justify what he did.
I jump to my feet while glaring at him, hoping he can see that I want him to get up. I want to yell and scream. He has said many things tonight, but none of them answered anything. I want him to know that my soul hurts, and I don’t forgive him.
“Do you know what they did to me when you left? All the shit I had to put up with because I didn’t want to leave Jeremy alone with them? Marcus would grope me. I’d stand in the shower and hear the bathroom door rattling because he was trying to break in. I’d drop a plate and Greg would beat me. And that’s not even all of it!” I yell. “You promised me, Roman. You fucking promised that you wouldn’t leave me—that I’d never be alone. You said no one would hurt me. You told me no one would touch me. You’re a liar,Roman. I can’t believe I trusted you.”
I wish I could want him to suffer for everything he’s done, but I can’t. The reality is that hurting him will only hurt me, too, because I feel the sorrow that flashes through his eyes, and I can taste the guilt pouring out of his heart as if it were my own.
I want to hate him—I even said I hate him—but looking at him right now, sitting at eye level with my chest, what I’m feeling isn’t hate; It’s something much worse.
“I didn’t have a choice. I tried so hard to get back to you.” He’s already said this before, but it still means nothing to me. If he meant it, he would have done as he wanted and stayed with me. “Just sit down and let me explain.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Sit down, Isabella.” The sudden burst of rage vibrating from him has me flinching and doing as I’m told.
Even though his anger isn’t directed at me, my life of obedience replays through my head; every time Greg told me to get a beer, every time Marcus told me to sit by him, and all the times Maxim and Mikhail have laughed as they ransacked my bag, or when other kids would tell me to say certain words back when I still had a speech impediment.
‘No’ was never an answer because ‘No’ meant that I was asking to be struck.
I’m so tired of living like this, with my tail between my legs, scared of loud noises, and grateful for any scraps thrown my way, but I don’t know how to heal myself.
He rakes his hand through his hair. “I was in prison.”
Everything around me stills. “What?”
