Page 180 of Hate to Love You

“I want it,” I say softly.

“Abby, this ties you to his death,” Roman says, his head tilted slightly, appraising me.

Can he see it? The demons rolling beneath my skin, wrestling with my soul. Can he see them staring back at him through my eyes?

He grabs the gun in his hand, standing to his full height, leaving me seated on my knees.

The gun clicks once, twice, the magazine sliding out of the grip. Twirling them both in his hands, a smirk gracing his lips as he looks down at me and extends his hand.

Glancing up from beneath my lashes I take his hand, and he squeezes it before pulling me to my feet.

“No one will know what happened here. The weapon won’t tie you to anything, Abby, I’ll make sure of that.”

His large hands grip the barrel of the gun as he hands it to me, the veins in his wrists pulsing.

With a nod, my fingers flex as the grip settles into my palm, as if it was made for me, the weight filling me with a strength I didn’t know I’ve been missing. Gently, I run my fingers lightly over the barrel, feeling the cold metal nip at my skin. Twisting the gun in my hands, I quickly tuck it away in my clutch, the weight heavy on the strap.

My lips twitch, a smile fighting to break free as a laugh bubbles in my throat.

It’s clear to me now that Roman was indeed cut from the same cloth as me. His demons dance with mine, to a tune that neither of us fully understand.

Yet here we are.

I was going to kill him. Part of me had regretted my impulsive decision to knock that coffee from his hands.

But now I no longer regret anything.

I don’t want Roman to die at all.

Swallowing, I glance back up at this man, feeling him staring at me.

“Can we go?” I murmur.

He gestures toward the front of the Alley, smiling.

“After you, Foxy.”

The city blurs past me in black and white, lights shining and glittering as we sit in comfortable silence. He didn’t ask how I was; he didn’t reassure me again. Not because he didn’t care, but because he knew he didn’t need to.

Never have I seen a mark go down like that, but I suppose he wasn’t a mark at all.

Just someone trying to take what’s mine.

I glance over at Roman who is furiously texting on his phone, his jaw tensed.

“Where are we going?” I ask, stopping that thought from continuing.

“Home.”

Turning slightly, I stare at him. “Home?”

“The penthouse.”

“That’s not my home, and that’s work,” I state, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Not that penthouse.”

My spine stiffens, “You have more than one fucking penthouse?” I roll my eyes.