Page 196 of Hate to Love You

I want them to.

Ever since I killed the man who attacked Roman, I’ve been slowly retreating deeper and deeper inside my own demons, and I have no desire to climb back out. I feel them surrounding me, filling me with strength.

They are like a warm hug on a cool winter’s day.

Comforting, and refreshing.

But somehow, I’ve lost who I was.

Or have I gained who I really am?

I glare at myself in the mirror.

Who am I?

I punish men who abuse women. Women who can’t defend themselves. But Roman said he doesn’t do that, that he doesn’t do it without reason. What he does doesn’t apply to my code.

So, is Roman truly a monster?

And if Roman is a monster, am I?

Ever since that day in the office, the day I stopped myself from killing him, something clicked into place.

I knew it. And I tried to run from it.

Unsuccessfully.

But something changed inside me, an impulse that’s been lurking deep beneath my skin, buried so deep that I didn’t even feel it there…until now.

My demons were starving, suffocating in the prison of my own mind and limitations. They’ve been rioting, screaming for their next feed, and work did nothing to quell their chaos.

The next week at the office was hell.

The office sluts were on another level. It was like they knew exactly what was happening between Roman and I, and decided that they would torment me until I either caved, or quit. Everywhere I went they followed me, testing my teetering patience.

Honestly, it was a miracle I made it to the end of the week without killing anyone.

My brain threw violent images at me, taunting and teasing me, until I finally stormed out around three, resulting in Roman scolding me via email for walking out of work early.

But he didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

I left because I needed a fix.

Exactly what fix I required was still unclear. Whether that be Roman, or a drop of Widowmaker in a bad man’s drink.

I flop back down on the bed, bouncing as my hair covers my face and with a sigh I reach for my phone, snatching it off the charger.

The only way I know how to wrangle my demons is to feed them, and it just so happens that I still have a mark left from The List.

And I’ve been toying with a plan to scratch off that name all day, trying to talk myself out of it, but to no avail.

So, without further hesitation I press the call button, lifting the phone to my ear.

As I slide onto the stool, I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh. I don’t even have to open it to know it’s Roman.

It’s always Roman.

That man outside the gala would’ve killed him had I not intervened. But even though I saved his life, it feels as if the King of New York has somehow become more suspicious of me.