Skin of a Sinner: A Dark Childhood Best Friends Romance(52)

I would get shot in the chest again just to stop her tears.

She’s in my arms before I realize I’m moving. “No, no, shh. It’s okay. Don’t cry, alright? I’ve got you.” My girl is too beautiful to cry over those pieces of shit. It’s all over now. Red smears across her cheek from my thumb, and the sight of her covered in my favorite color makes me feel more deranged.

She shoves me. “Don’t touch me,” she pleads.

“You were always a heavy sleeper.” I chuckle even though it hurts. Bella missed me as much as I missed her—I know it. She’s only reacting like this because I’m a little dirty now. I mean, the number of times Bella has seen me covered in blood is well over double digits, so it’s nothing new, but the substance covers me more than usual.

She loves me, and she’s glad I’m back.

Marcus screams, ruining our moment. Her eyes snap away from the smile on my lips when I nudge the handle of the knife into her hand. “Would you like the honors, Princess?”

After everything that piece of shit did to her, she’s the one who should have been beating Greg with the belt he used on her, the one carving into Marcus until he bleeds out. It’s infuriating contemplating how much they might have done that I haven’t seen. I’ve watched as Bella barricades her bedroom door just to get changed, thinking, ‘What the fuck did they do to her to make her listen about the chair?’

She has every right to take from them when they’ve taken from her without asking. She deserves their blood and so much more. I did this for her.

Her vengeance.

Her liberation.

Her justice.

After this, she’ll know what freedom feels like. She’ll know what it means to never be alone again. We’ll be together. We can do this together.

Bella sniffles, looking anywhere but at me. “Where—Where’s Millie?”

That wasn’t the answer that I was hoping for, but I realize she has a soft spot for motherly figures, even if said figure is a bitch. “She’s okay.”

“What does ‘okay’ mean?” I reach for her, but she steps back, shaking her head from side to side, taking in the room. “What have you done?”

Not once have her almond-shaped brown eyes focused on mine. I just want her to look at me. Why won’t she look at me?

Wait. No. Why is she fighting me, resisting everything I’m doing—and have done—for her? I’ve spent every day of the past three years trying to get back to her. I thought she’d be happy to see me. She’s meant to be happy to see me.

“What have you done, Roman? What—what is this? What are you—I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

Roman.

Roman. Roman. Roman.

That’s not my name, not to her. It sounds wrong on her tongue—feels wrong—like she’s talking about a stranger, not the person who hasn’t left her side in fourteen years. The very same person who has made sure she was warm and fed and never felt alone or afraid. The one who would do anything for her.

I try to hold her still and reason her with my stare, but she still won’t fucking look at me.

Just fucking look at me, Bella.

“Deep breaths, Bella. Don’t look, alright? Just focus on me.”

“No. No!” she screams. “You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.”

“I prefer the term ‘artist.’”

She’s shocked. I get it now: this is a lot for her to take in. I’ve kept this side of me hidden from her, so it’s only natural.

Bella blinks and leans back like she’s just been hit. “What is your fucking problem? Why are you here? You left, so you should stay gone.” Each word drips with malice.

I run my tongue over my teeth. I’m telling myself this is a completely normal reaction to have, and once all the bodies are out of sight, she’ll realize that it’s me: her Mickey. The love of her life.

“Go back to bed. I was hoping to finish up without disturbing you.” Another half-truth. I was hoping to kill them without her witnessing all the steps I took to get there. Only after I was done cleaning myself of the pigs’ blood would I wake her so we could drive into the night, pretending I hadn’t just killed her foster dad and brother or that I had “left” her for years.

Bella’s expression turns seething, and she finally looks at me. “Fuck you, Roman. I hate you.”

No, this is wrong.

This is all wrong.

This isn’t how any of this is meant to go.

Shocked. She’s just shocked.

Bella just needs a couple more minutes, and then she’ll run into my arms and ask me to take her away.

“You don’t mean that—"

“Leave. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you here. You’re a monster,” she hisses, not a single doubt in her voice.

I rear back, but I’m never going anywhere again, regardless of what she says. Cupping her cheeks in my hands, I wipe away her tears. “It’s me, Bella. It’s your Mickey.”

Say my name, Bella. Just say my name. I need to hear you say it.

She doesn’t say anything, keeping up her futile attempts at fighting me off, throwing weak punches and kicking her legs like she has every intention of injuring me. “I don’t know who you are anymore,” she growls.