Chapter 7 - What Remains in the Dark
The drive back to the city was silent, save for the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers cutting through the gathering blizzard. Roman’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel. He hadn't said a word since we left the Calumet district.
When the elevator finally deposited us back into the warm penthouse, I shed my coat and turned to face him.
“You were going to kill him,” I said softly.
Roman took off his jacket, tossing it onto the sofa, his chest rising and falling heavily. He didn't look at me. “He threatened your life, Abigail. In my world, that carries a single sentence.”
“You threw away your board meeting. You broke through an industrial gate. You risked everything you built over the last decade just to get to that warehouse.”
Roman stopped. He turned slowly, his eyes burning with an exhaustion that ran deeper than bone.
“You still think I care about the company?” he asked, taking a step toward me. “You think I spent the last five years working eighteen-hour days so I could buy another building?”
“Then why did you do it, Roman?” My voice broke, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. “Why did you keep me at a distance? Why did you let me leave for Lisbon believing I meant nothing to you?”
Roman closed the space between us in two strides. His hands cupped my face, his palms warm, rough, and trembling with a restraint that had finally snapped after years of agony.
“Because your father made me swear on his deathbed that I wouldn't touch you until you were old enough to choose me without his shadow over your head,” Roman rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “He knew what I was, Abigail. I’m an enforcer who learned how to wear a three-piece suit. I have blood on my hands that will never wash off. Conrad wanted a pure life for you—he wanted you to marry a man who hadn't spent half his life in the dark.”
“I don't want a man who hasn't lived in the dark,” I whispered, leaning into his touch, my hands coming up to grip his wrists. “I wanted the man who stood on that terrace in the snow and gave me his coat. I wanted the man who protected me when everyone else was trying to use me.”
Roman stared at me, his gaze tracing every line of my face, his thumb softly brushing away the tear tracks on my cheek.
“I spent five years dying in this room every time a photo arrived from Lisbon,” Roman confessed, his forehead coming down to rest against mine. “Every time you smiled at a painting, every time you sat by the ocean alone, I wanted to burn the city down and drag you back here. I thought I was keeping you safe. But all I did was keep myself in hell.”
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“Then let the fire burn,” I whispered against his lips.
Roman groaned—a low, broken sound from the depths of his chest—and crushed his mouth to mine.
