Page 207 of Hate to Love You
Silence fills the car as I stare out the window.
A flutter of relief fills my chest as we pass the little bakery I’d often visit before my “book club” meetings at the library.
Oleg is taking me home instead of my grave.
Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply as my shoulder sag. When I open them, I catch Oleg staring at me in the mirror.
I clear my throat softly.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, shame filling me.
“What?”
“It wasn’t personal,” I whisper, refusing to elaborate.
He winces, dropping his eyes from mine as his face glows green from the lights changing.
He continues driving in silence and I return to looking out the window once more. After a few minutes of suffocating in the heavy silence, my guilt has festered, pooling in my stomach and rising in my throat.
“I…I hope you save her,” I say.
He barks a humorless laugh, shaking his head softly.
“What just happened Abby?” he asks, ignoring me.
“I’m sure Roman will fill you in, but as I said, just know, I’m sorry, it really wasn’t personal. It was self-preservation and all that.”
Pulling up outside of my Townhouse, I jump out, running toward my door, only to freeze and run back to the car. Leaning in through the open window, I meet Oleg’s wide eyes, as they dart between mine still trying to piece the puzzle of me together.
“Truly, I’m glad Roman turned up when he did. I’m sure you’ll save your girl,” I nod, pushing off the car and turning away leaving him alone in the dark.
Being under literal house arrest is infuriating.
Roman has locked me up in my own fucking house as if he is my warden.
I could be doing anything else with my fucking time, instead I’m sitting in my living room, in the dark with Lily curled up and purring on my lap. She understands too.
Am I just supposed to wait here until he decides to free me?
But I already know the answer to that.
Yes. Yes, I fucking am.
My phone lights up, vibrating so suddenly that it almost falls off the cozy recliner. With a sigh, I swipe my thumb over the screen, opening the new message from Roman.
Roman
4:18 a.m.: I want to see you. I’m on my way.
Me
4:23 a.m.: Sorry. Not home. I went back out.
Roman
4:23 a.m.: Abby, I know you didn’t.
I roll my eyes.