I’m done. I’m not letting myself get to a point where I’ll feel nothing when a gun is aimed at my head. I can still recall the click of the safety, but in my messed-up reality, my brain has already decided that the sound is something to expect in my everyday life. I always thought Roman’s recklessness would get him killed, but I was wrong; it’ll get me killed.
“Bella, talk to me.”
By my count, this is the third time he’s said those four words in the past five minutes.
He also rotates between a couple of other sentences.
I’m so sorry, Bella.
This is the last time, Bella. I promise nothing like this will ever happen again.
Bella, baby, please speak to me.
I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, Bella.
I relented and helped him bandage the cut on his arm that probably needs stitches. But other than that, I’ve refused to even look in his general direction. Instead, my entire body is angled outward, and my lips are sealed shut. My heartbeat is still thundering, the blood in my ears still roaring, and my lungs are still squeezing and burning for oxygen.
The pain in my cheek isn’t improving, and I can already feel a whole bunch of nasty bruises forming on my face and body. I’m convinced that the cut on my cheek will open back up if I look at him, and I’ll bleed all over him and his goddamn clothes.
But, of course, he came to save me, like always, with his fists and a damn inhaler.
I’ve slapped Roman’s hand away every time it comes near me, but my hand hurts from hitting the shit out of my abductor, and I think I pulled several muscles trying to get away from him. But ultimately, Roman’s hands still ended up on me, and, if I’m being honest with myself, they’re the only thing stopping me from bawling my eyes out.
Before Roman went to prison, I—the Isabella from before—probably would have found a corner to cry in and clung onto Mickey like a lifeboat on a sinking ship. She was a scared, traumatized, and weak little girl.
I used to only feel fear when Marcus looked at me in the leering way he did. I would toe the line of hyperventilating when I’d get groped or hit on by strangers. The fear was and is alive and well. But my terror made friends with rage, which makes a toxic combination.
I’m still weak; I admit that. If it weren’t for the support his hands are bringing me, my head would be between my knees as I struggle for breath as the shock and rage takes over. If Roman hadn’t found me when he did, who knows what sort of nightmare I would be experiencing. But the fact remains, he is the whole reason something happened to me.
I wouldn’t need a lifeboat if he hadn’t set the ship on fire.
The difference between directing my anger at him or having Mickey as a lifeboat is that one has the paddles in my hand, and the other has them placed in someone else’s, someone who might jump overboard at any second. Paddling will wear me out, but at least I’ll have control and can rely on myself.
We pull up in front of our motel room, and he locks the doors when my finger touches the handle.
“Let me out, Roman,” I grit out.
I need to wash away the feel of that man’s hands on me and all the dried blood beneath my nails, crusting on my hands and face. Then, I’m going to scream into a pillow while letting it soak up all my tears.
And after that…
Well, I need to put my safety first.
“Talk to me.”
Silence.
“Fine, we can stay here all night, then.” I hear him settle into his seat. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
“I don’t want your help,” I snap.
So much for staying silent.
“You’re right. That was the wrong choice of words. I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of my shit; it never should have happened. I’m going to make it right,” he promises.
I shake my head. “There’s nothing you can do to make it right. It happened. It’s done.”
“Look at me, Bella.”
“No.” His hands move, and I quickly add, “If I look at you, I’ll remember what his hands felt like around my neck and what his body felt like against my back. So, no, Roman, I won’t look at you right now.”
Roman promised nothing would happen to me, and I promised I wouldn’t leave Damien’s side or talk to strangers. I guess we’re both liars.
The air turns cloying. My words will cut him. And he has a point. He can’t do anything unless I talk. Actually, now that I think about it, I do have things to say. So here we are again: actions meet consequences.