Page 61 of From Rome, With Hate

I stare at my husband, wondering what to do. The ghost of his touch still lingers on my skin. My nipples peak under my pajama shirt. My thighs clench, remembering what it felt like to have Rome’s facial hair grating against them as my orgasm ripped through me—an orgasm caused by his sharp tongue.

“Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs,” Rome taunts, tearing me from my thoughts.

“Lay a finger on me, and you won’t be able to jerk off for a whole month.”

“Bold threat, Lark.” He smirks, chuckling under his breath. “Prove it to me outside.”

His dare has my body bursting into flames.

He leaves the living room, telling me to meet him out back, and I head upstairs to change into something more comfortable—another legging set I bought when I went to one of Selene’s cycling classes. I thought she was insane with yoga, but cycling is another level of psychotic.

Unlike the last legging set I destroyed on the bridge, this one consists of a tank top and a pair of shorts. Marcus returned to the cabin with a loaded SUV, packed from front to back with suitcases full of my clothes and toiletries. Honestly, it felt like he’d brought half my apartment back with him. My clothing options are practically endless now, but I consider the occasion.

I squeeze into the tight spandex, gather my hair into a ponytail, slip an elastic band over my hair, and double check the bandages on my leg. Three Band-Aids cover what’s left of the deepest cuts. They’re healing nicely. Thankfully.

I slip into my sneakers and meet Rome out on the back deck.

“Ready?” he asks while walking down the stairs into the expansive yard. Before he takes the last step, he grabs the gun holster draped over the railing. Two pistols with silencers attached are tucked into the side pockets, and he slips his arms into it, adjusting the straps, until they’re snuggly pressed against his ribcage.

“I thought we were working on self-defense.” I eye him skeptically, following him farther into the yard.

“We are. Guns are part of self-defense.”

My jaw drops. “You want me to use a gun?”

He stops, turns, and closes the space between us, his eyes lighting with fire. “Don’t tell me you forgot how to use one.”

I swallow around the thick lump in my throat, stunned by his sudden closeness. My eyes drop to his mouth. “Of course not.”

Shortly after we were married, Rome taught me how to use a gun in this very spot. He insisted I should know how to use one if I were to become a Montgomery. I didn’t have the courage to tell him then that I’d gone twice with father during my freshman year of high school. I might not have needed to use one as often as a Montgomery, but I was a Capuleti. Capuletis were always taught to protect themselves, especially from the Montgomerys.

Satisfied with my answer, Rome continues onward, and I follow behind him along the trail through the woods, remembering the path to the makeshift shooting range Rome set up ten years ago.

The air is sticky, with evidence still lingering from the rainstorms that have dogged us the past three days. The earth is soft, and the dirt path leading through the woods has turned to thick mud. My feet squish and sink with every step, and I know my shoes are already ruined before I’m even halfway through my journey.

I pick a piece of bark from one of the trees and tear it apart, thinking about Rome’s sudden shift in mood. We’re talking. Not exactly friendly but we’re talking. I call that progress.

It’s incredible how his change in mood has shifted since Marcus left to meet with the detective.

Which brings me to…

“So, what have you found out about the person, or persons, after us? What does it have to do with the detective who investigated your mother’s murder?”

I watch Rome make his way through the woods. He holds onto one of the trees as he passes it, stepping over a thick root sticking out of the dirt path. His taut muscles strain against the sleeves of his T-shirt. I stare at him longer than I probably should, but I can’t help it.

Rome has always been dark and mysterious. Gorgeous. The hatred I held for him until that day we met in the library blinded me to it. Standing there, holding our copy of Romeo and Juliet, I finally saw him in a different light, with a jaw that could cut glass, intense eyes that literally ripped the earth from under my feet, and a touch that had my body combusting into flames.

He made me feel that way then with just one look, and as much as I hate to admit, he still manages to make me feel the same way now.

It’s been incredible noticing the differences in Rome over these ten years.

My attraction to him is undeniable, no matter how much I hate him for the pain he’s put me through.

He still hasn’t answered my question when we finally reach the clearing. On the far side of the opening, there’s a large tree trunk that’s fallen. On top sit smaller chunks of wood, set several feet apart. Each piece of wood is marked with a black ‘X’. Bullet holes litter the chunks of wood—evidence of past shots. I wonder how many are from me.

Rome pulls one of the pistols from the holster, checks to make sure it’s loaded, then turns it over in his hand and cocks it.

“You haven’t answered my question,” I point out while staring at the pieces of wood in the distance.