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.
Roman has always made the hard days easy, and the good days great. And… and I don’t want to lose that—him.
“I thought so much about what’s happened; I’m not sure I want to understand anything anymore.”
“You don’t always need to understand it; you just need to know it’s there.” He tucks the hair behind my ear and flicks my nose.
My lips part, and I poke his chest. “When did you get so philosophical?”
“I saw a shrink. When did you become so self-aware?”
“I was left alone with my thoughts,” I say matter-of-factly. You know what? I like that I don’t have to live in the darkness anymore. I shouldn’t be tormenting myself over liking the feeling of being happy.
“You’ve always been mature for your age—and don’t give me that biology, brain development bullshit.” He throws a cushion at me with a grin, and I bat it away.
I huff a breath and pick up the utensils. “Biology doesn’t lie. Plus, I didn’t ask to be mature. I didn’t have a choice. I had to grow up faster than I wanted to, constantly dreaming of another life where I wasn’t me. It sucked up all my energy.”
Silence blares around us, and then he says, “You and me both.” He nods at my plate. “Finish up, then I’m going to read to you.”
My eyebrows rise. “You mean that you want me to read to you?”
“I said what I said.”
He did, in fact, say what he said, because later, he tucks me into bed, lies right next to me, holds me in his arms, and reads to me.
…An R-18 book.
Chapter 20
ISABELLA
“What do you want for breakfast?” If breakfast is even a term that can describe the current hour. Lunch is more accurate.