Then the lust-filled haze over my vision fades away, and my mind suddenly remembers what I was doing before my long-forgotten libido replaced my brain.
“There won’t be a next time,” I say between pants.
“Don’t doubt me. We need to go,” he says dismissively.
My muscles wind tighter, walking the thin line of falling from the adrenaline high. As soon as I’m completely free from his hold, my animalistic instinct takes over once more, and I bolt for the door, swinging it open. I can hear Roman cursing under his breath before I break into a run.
I just need to scream.
I just need to open my mouth and call for help.
But neither of those two things happens because I can’t bring myself to make a single sound, not even when he catches me. I kick and thrash, and I’m unsure if it’s just for show. I’m telling myself the only reason for giving up on my freedom so easily is because I don’t want him to get in trouble.
“You’re being a very naughty girl, Bella.”
The ominous tone of his voice sends a shudder down my spine as he drags me back inside with nothing but the flickering streetlight to guide the way. As soon as the front door shuts, he’s caging me against the wood with his body, pinning my arms above my head with a single hand.
“It’s like you’re begging to be punished.” The sentence is laced with hope that I’ll fight him again, letting me know how serious he is by pushing his bulge against my stomach.
“What—" My eyes widen when his free hand joins his other, and something soft wraps around my wrists. The door groans as I shift to glance at the black rope Roman is binding my wrists with.
Mouth hanging open, I notice he's not using just any rope. It's not the kind found in a department store, and it's certainly nothing like the abrasive hemp rope he used on Marcus. The realization that he's using silk rope kicks me in the gut.
Roman knew I would fight him, knew I would try to run. He planned it all. The mask, the method of torture and death, the different ropes, the message he left when I arrived home yesterday.
I don’t know who this man is. Roman never planned ahead when spilling blood was involved. He was impulsive—acting first, avoiding consequences later. Which begs the question, what else does he have planned?
“Don’t do this,” I beg.
I can see the concentration in his pinched brows as he works to tie my wrists firmly, but not to the point of pain, as I thrash.
“I don’t want to do this, Bella. Do you think I want to hurt you?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Yes.”
The muscle in his cheek pulses as he pauses and looks down at me. “Never.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He tenses, and something flashes in his eyes too quickly for me to figure out what it is.
I look behind him toward the kitchen, where two dead bodies remain. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I murmur.
He tilts his head, raking his gaze over my face as the corner of his lips curves upward. “You could have stopped me.”
“How?”
His eyes soften, and I see the man I used to know for the first time tonight. The one who reserved all his genuine smiles for me and would only truly laugh if it was just the two of us alone.
Roman’s voice is dangerously low. “I would do anything you tell me to.”
I swallow and hold his stare, hoping he will see whatever I’m feeling so I don’t need to admit it to myself. “Let me go.”
“Anything but that.”
“Roman,” I plead.
Any evidence of the man I knew slips away with a flash of hurt, quickly replaced by his menacing grin. “Come on. It’s just you and me from now on.”
He throws me over his shoulder, knocking the wind from me before I can say anything else.
“Put me down,” I hiss, hitting his toned back with my bound wrists.
He chuckles, and I yelp when he slaps my ass. “Fuck, I missed you.”
My legs flop against his chest, and my dark hair sways with his movements. What’s worse is that I miss him too. I miss his voice, the nicknames, the constant entertainment, and the way he looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
He grabs a duffle bag off the floor, opens the door, clicks the internal lock, then shuts it behind him. I squirm against his shoulder, still beating his back and kicking his front, growling obscenities under my breath.
But if I’m completely honest with myself, it’s all for peace of mind that I tried—that I wasn’t an entirely willing victim. We both know the truth. It’s right there in front of us and undeniable under the cloudy night sky: If I truly wanted to be free of him, I would be.