Skin of a Sinner: A Dark Childhood Best Friends Romance(64)
Slowly, he rocks us with his arms wrapped around my waist. He’s heard me talk about my missing parts before, but he’s never been one for words. Not really, at least.
His soft breaths ruffle my hair as he says, “There’s no point living if you don’t feel alive. I’m going to make you a promise; you’re going to wake up every day knowing that your heart is full and you have someone who will never leave your side. It’ll be my life’s goal to make you so happy that you shit rainbows and eat butterflies. You’ll never live feeling like you need more.”
“Please, don’t hurt the butterflies.” We both chuckle half-heartedly, and a sad smile curls across my face. “I always knew you would carry a part of me with you wherever you go.” I bite the inside of my lip and continue, “Because you took it from me. I knew you cared about me and lent me every piece of your heart that you had. But there’s a quote I once read: Even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt.”
He rearranges us so that his eyes bore into mine. Calloused fingers wrap around my wrist to bring my hands to his face.
“Do you feel me, Isabella?”
I nod.
“I am skin and bone, living and breathing. I am not a ghost. Most definitely not to you.”
My fingers move on their own. At my touch, his eyes slide closed as he shivers. Stubble prickles the skin beneath my hand, traveling up his cheek and over his jaw.
Opening his eyes, he says with a pained whisper, “I missed you so much, Bella. I woke up every morning, counting down the minutes until I could go back to sleep so I could see you.” Soft, dark hair brushes against me as he lowers his head to mine, taking all the air from my lungs. “In prison, I couldn’t keep anything physical. No pictures, no bracelets, or drawings. But everything reminded me of you, and I finally understood the meaning of looking under the same moon.”
“What?” Roman Riviera doesn’t quote classic literature.
Wearing a grin, he shrugs innocently. “I told you I started reading.”
That’s life with Mickey: easy. He gets into the deep end and always finds a way out. But there’s one thing I almost forgot; he’s always kept me afloat.
“R-18 books?” I ask, plucking at the carpet.
A smile cracks across his face, and the old wooden floor creaks beneath our weight. “We call that contraband in prison.” His hot breath feathers against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “But maybe those books of yours taught me a thing or two.”
My red cheeks greet him as he pulls away with a mischievous grin, running a hungry eye from my chest to my unblinking eyes. Rising to his feet, he offers me his hand.
“Come on, let’s make dinner.”
I hesitate. Just for a second, but it’s enough for him to notice. The tiny flicker of hurt morphs into a place where only darkness lies, making me question whether I made the right choice by taking his hand. But how could something bad make my heart feel so light? It’s beating without sound, pumping blood without pain. It’s freeing.
We move around the kitchen, completely in sync, knowing who’s cutting, cooking, or seasoning without needing to say a single word.
This time, when Mickey pulls my seat next to his, I don’t try to move away. Not when he cups my chin to face him, either. I’m starved for his touch and willing to accept whatever crumbs he’s willing to give me.
“They deserve what they got,” he says suddenly, expressionless.
I breathe in slowly and nod. He doesn’t need to say exactly who he’s referring to because the answer is everyone he’s ever hurt in my name. “They did, but what will I ever learn if you keep fighting my battles for me?”
His expression turns into one of disapproval. I snap upright, not expecting when he grabs my legs and drapes them over his thighs, acting like this is a perfectly natural thing to do at the dinner table. I shouldn’t live for simple things, like touching each other under the table.
“You shouldn’t be in a battle to begin with. Wars aren’t fought alone.”
I shouldn’t like a lot of things about Mickey, but when he says words in a way that seems like I’m the only thing that could ever matter to him, I’m ready to be any girl he wants me to be.
Even if it hurts me.
I can’t let myself be that person anymore.
Metal clinks against porcelain, and I mutter, “I’m broken, Roman.”
It doesn’t matter what he says about being this amazing, beautiful person in his eyes, I don’t see it. And I’m tired of living inside of a shell.
“But you’re not fragile,” he says pointedly, lacking the somber tone I feel in my heart.
“Despite everything I’ve gone through, I’m still a girl missing her mother.” I narrow my eyes at him. How can he pull me from my emotions with the curl of his lips? Try as I might, this man still owns me. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you know you’re not just a girl.”
I shake my head, hiding behind a curtain of fallen hair. He’s doing it—wearing down the walls I built around myself to keep me safe. Each time he speaks, he reminds me why I fell in love with him to begin with, and why I’ve only ever felt alive around him. These past three years, I wasn’t just longing for freedom; I wanted to feel like I had a life that’s worth living.