Skin of a Sinner: A Dark Childhood Best Friends Romance(58)
He grabs my hand when I sidestep him. “Bella, wait.”
“What?” I snap.
He digs into his pocket and drops my inhaler into my outstretched hand. “Two puffs, morning and night.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. After three years, he still remembers. “I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” He says it playfully, but all I see is red.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” It comes out sharper than I intended, and his flinch makes me feel bad about it. Regretting my words should be the last thing I do after what he put me through, but I’ve always hated seeing Roman hurt or upset. Especially when it’s over something I’ve said or done, when he’s only ever tried doing right by me. At the start, at least.
I can’t let it get to me. I’ve come too far and been through too much to be thrown back into the hole where I couldn’t live without Roman and his approval. Three years without him, and I’m physically better than ever. My mental health is another question.
This time, when I pull away, he lets me take a couple of steps. “Bella—"
I spin on my heel. “What now—"
His arms close in around me before I have a chance to jump back, fingers threading into my hair and face nuzzling into the crook of my neck. I go stock still, engulfed in the smell of iron. What the hell am I meant to do, pat his back? Tell him it’s alright? Knee him?
I should be doing the latter, but it’s taking every ounce of strength not to dissolve into his hold and hug him back. I know that if he keeps holding me, the ugly tears will come back.
“I’m so fucking sorry for hurting you. It was never what I intended. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Sincerity oozes from every word, and I’m not sure if I’m a fool for believing him.
Silence blankets us as the seconds tick on, his warmth seeping into my very core. There’s more to the touch than just a reprieve from the cold; it’s every night we spent together, curling beneath the covers, watching random videos, leaning on his shoulder as he draws while I read to him, and cuddling up to him as he talks about everything and nothing.
It feels like everything I lost three years ago that I never thought I would get back. I’m angry at him for ruining all of it, and I’m angry at myself for wishing we could go back to the way we were. But I’m not that girl anymore, and I never will be again. He made sure of that.
I let myself enjoy his hold for one more second, then I take a step back.
“I need to shower.” What I’m actually saying is I need to feel warmth that isn’t coming from him. I’m also hoping that he has plumbing set up so I don’t need to take a bath in a stream or something.
“Your stuff’s in our room.”
My stuff? What stuff?
Wait. Our room?
I walk faster, deciding that investigating is more important.
The room in question is nothing like the rest of the house. Where the lounge was barebones, this place is covered in drawings. Some are by him. Some by me. Some of me. The dates on his drawings of me span the last five years. He has too much pride in his drawings to write the wrong date.
Mismatching side tables sit on either side of the bed. On the right, closer to the door, an energy drink, knife, bottle of cologne, and random screws and bolts are strewn on the bedside table. On the opposite side, an inhaler, a single unopened box of tissues, my favorite hand cream, and a stack of romance books.
His and hers, just like the two dressers in the room. One with clothes sticking out of drawers and body spray on the top. I move closer to the other, where a mirror, hair ties, and ribbons are stored away in glass containers.
Tentatively, I open each drawer, one by one, until my heart sinks to the floor. When I get to the bottom row, I pull out the pair of jeans lying at the very top of the pile—the very pair I couldn’t find this morning.
With shaking hands, I search both drawers for everything I need to shower, but come up empty. Grumbling, I grab the first t-shirt and sweatpants I find, then dart into the bathroom next door. The faint smell of smoke wafts through the house, but it doesn’t overcome the smell of sandalwood and cinnamon clinging to the walls of this place.
How long has he been here? Why the hell did he bring me here? He doesn’t seriously think that keeping me prisoner will work out for him, right?
I don’t like that last question. I’ll fight and argue with him, but how long will it last until I’m back to the girl from before who looked at Roman with rose-tinted, heart-shaped glasses? My mind is at war between the memories of the last three years and the eleven before them, while my body craves his affection, a slave to his touch.
The only upside I’m letting myself see right now is that there seems to be plumbing in this horror house. The downside is that there’s no shower, just a ceramic bathtub that looks as old as time itself. Steam fills the room within seconds of me turning on the faucet.
I use the time waiting for the tub to fill to do a double take at the shampoo and conditioner under the sink. He got the same brand I use. It’s clear Roman has planned his kills and my stay. I’m scared to know what else he has in store for me.
There’s no window I can climb out of to make a run for it. Even if I got out of here, where would I go? The first time I came here, I didn’t see any houses for miles. It’s not like I can get the car keys off him, either. Plus, in my t-shirt and shorts, I’ll probably die of hypothermia before I find any sign of civilization.