Page 25 of Roman

“I’ll check in downstairs and tell them to call with any issues. Try to get some rest, Roman.”

He left, and I picked up the phone, barking some orders into it, then went back and checked on her. She was out of the shower, wrapped in one of the massive towels, standing in front of the vanity, staring at her reflection. There were marks on her shoulders and arms, no doubt from being manhandled. Her hair was a long streak of black down her back, and I saw the tremors that ran through her body.

“The bruises will fade,” I assured her.

She nodded, not speaking. I set a T-shirt and boxers on the vanity beside her, along with a toothbrush. “I’ll get you new clothes tomorrow.”

I paused when she didn’t move. “Do you need help?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, the sound barely audible.

I drew in a bracing breath, picking up the boxers and standing behind her. “Lift your leg.”

It was a slow, painful process for both of us. By the time I dropped the shirt over her head and pulled the towel away, she was shaking and tears leaked from her eyes. I held her chin in my hand and brushed her teeth. She continued to cry silently, the sight of it fanning my fury.

“Stop,” I hissed, then shook my head, realizing I had said that out loud and now she thought I was angry at her. So then I did become angry at her.

I threw the toothbrush into the sink and bent, lifting her, the sound of her exhaled pain once again hitting me. I carried her to the bed, sliding her under the blankets but leaving her sitting upright. “Are you hungry?”

“N-no,” she stammered out.

“You should eat. I got you some soup. You will eat it.”

I headed to my office, the tray already waiting for me. I returned to my room and slid the tray over her lap. I lifted the lid, the savory aroma of creamy chicken soup wafting up. I handed her the spoon, waiting.

She tried. Goddammit all to hell, she tried. She clutched the spoon, dipping it into the soup, but her hand trembled so hard she couldn’t lift it. She tried again, taking only a small amount on the spoon, barely enough to taste, but I could see even that wasn’t going to happen. “Stop,” I said again.

She looked at me, the fear, pain, and exhaustion so blatant, I swore I felt them. I took the spoon from her hand, dipped it into the soup and lifted it to her lips. “Eat.”

She let me feed her the mouthful. “Good girl,” I murmured. “You need this, Effie. Your body needs this.”

I got about half the bowl into her before she laid her head back, shaking it when I tried to feed her more. She hadn’t spoken a word, but her tears had stopped, which was a good thing. I couldn’t handle them. I had never seen my nonna cry—not once—and I wasn’t used to that emotion. I had experienced it on occasion with women I dated—usually when I was breaking up with them—and their waterworks didn’t bother me as a rule, but Effie’s tears did.

I was starving, so I finished off the soup, ate the sandwich, and drank the milk. That made me grimace. I disliked milk.

Effie sipped the ginger ale I offered to her, and I slipped two pills into her mouth. “To help your pain,” I said to her silent question.

I carried the tray back to my office and returned. “You are safe. Nothing will harm you, and no one is going to get close to you again. Sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

I reached for the light, and she whimpered in distress. I went to the opposite corner and snapped on a light, then turned off the one beside her. “All right?”

She shut her eyes. “I-I can’t… There are no words…” She trailed off.

For some reason, I ran my hand over her head, touching the long, dark tresses on the pillow. She sighed, turning her head into my caress.

“I know,” I replied.

I did a quick check of the casino. Spoke with my managers. All assured me things were fine, the night was busy, but everything was under control. They also told me Aldo had been around, checking on everything. My right hand had been annoying but, as usual, highly efficient.

Effie was on her side, curled into a ball, almost defensively. But she appeared to be asleep, so I grabbed fresh clothes and took a shower. I came back into the room, finding her in the throes of a nightmare. I stood beside the bed, trying to help her. I had no experience offering comfort, but I vaguely recalled my mother’s soothing touch as a child, and I carefully touched her shoulder and ran my fingers through her hair. It was like silk to touch but knotted. It needed a brush, but she’d been too exhausted for me to suggest that. I would bring up someone from the salon in the morning to help her.

When she quieted, I looked around, unsure. I had to wake her every few hours, and I had planned on sleeping on the sofa in my office. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d crashed there. But it felt too far away in case she had another nightmare. Instead, I pulled a chair away from the window, bringing it close to the bed. I sat down and lifted my legs to the bed, then I set my alarm to wake me to check on her. I would be close if she needed me.

I’d intended to close my eyes, but I couldn’t take my gaze off her. Small and delicate-looking in the large bed, she was bruised, scared, and an unwelcome distraction. Yet, despite the bruises, the fear, and the fact that she was nothing like the women I usually preferred, there was something about her I found intriguing. Captivating. I felt a draw to her I couldn’t deny.

And one I had to forget. Nothing could come of this. She was, without a doubt, a relationship girl, and I didn’t do relationships. I did brief stints. Sex. A few dates, maybe a weekend away. A pretty piece of jewelry I let them pick out at the shop downstairs and a goodbye. No one lasted. I was never interested enough, and I was always honest from the start. I felt nothing for them but the lust of the moment. It always passed.

And this draw would as well.

Of that, I was certain.