Page 220 of Hate to Love You

He wanted to understand me.

One of the first things he ever said to me was “betray me and find out.” And by all accounts, I’ve done that every time I’ve poisoned one of his men.

Technically I’d betrayed him before we’d even met. My motive for applying for the job as his secretary was solely in hope of finding more bad men to kill.

His bad men.

I should be dead.

He should have put me down and moved the fuck on with his life…but he hasn’t.

Instead, Roman Antonov has embedded himself in my skin, inserting himself so far into my life it feels as if he’s always been a part of it. I’ve told him things I’ve never told anyone, and when I look into his eyes, I see the same darkness, and need for control.

But perhaps what terrifies me the most is the way I care for him.

The last time I cared for someone and let them past the walls I’d built around my heart, it burned me. It destroyed me and obliterated any sense of existence. I lost so many years, submitting to another person’s will for my life.

And while I’ve healed and forgiven myself for allowing Garrett’s disrespect to continue and escalate the way it did, the one casualty I’ve never been able to forgive myself for is the loss of my unborn child.

On some level, I still hate myself for not fighting harder. For not leaving earlier…And for not killing the bastard sooner.

So, while part of my heart calls for Roman to set it ablaze, and the rest of it is terrified of the way I feel for him and how vulnerable those feelings could make me.

He might not be the kind of bad man that I put down, but he’s no angel either.

He’s a powerful man. And a deadly one.

But then again…I’m deadly too.

I am jarred out of my thoughts by a phone ringing.

Roman answers his phone pinning it into his shoulder as he tucks himself into his boxers and pulls his pants back up.

“What?” he demands.

The greenhouse is so quiet I could just make out a male voice rumbling on the other line. Roman stills, his eyes darting straight to mine.

“They confirmed?” He snaps, placing his hand on his hip. “When? Can’t it wait?”

I hear him sigh.

“Fine,” he barks, ending the call.

He throws his phone down next to me on the workbench, and I flinch in response, the loud noise echoing against the glass walls.

“Get dressed Abigail,” he says, throwing his jacket at me.

“Excuse me?”

“Get fucking dressed,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “We have to go.”

He looks around, his jaw clenched and his hand running through his ruffled hair.

“Fuck! Where the hell is my shirt?”

“Roman, I’m not going anywhere,” I state, sitting up on the workbench and closing my legs.

“Abby, I highly doubt you want to spend the rest of the day in a goodman greenhouse,” he barks. “So, get dressed. Now.”