Page 242 of Hate to Love You

When I’m sure I got it all, or as much as I could get off, I silently walk the soiled wipes over to the trash can.

Suddenly, Roman stands, and paces continuously across the room, his fist clenching.

“Dogs are designed to go in first and take the bullet…it’s just a dog, he did his job. He got between me and them. He took the bullet. He did his job,” Roman rambles, his hands moving rapidly as his breathing increases. “It’s just a dog.”

Automatically, I walk forward and wrap my arms around him from behind, squeezing him tightly, I rock us slightly.

“He’s going to be okay,” I say, my voice cracking.

If this was reversed. If this was Lily… I couldn’t.

“He’s going to be fine,” I repeat, trying to soothe him as his body tightens under my fingers.

I have no idea how long we’ve stood like this, before eventually Roman turns, wrapping me in his arms.

“He’s not just a dog, Abby,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“He’s family,” his voice cracks.

“I know Ro, I know, he’s going to be okay.”

Roman breathes heavily before suddenly chuckling darkly, causing my body to stiffen. Suddenly, the room turns cold, as his darkness spills out of him.

“They are all fucking dead,” he whispers his lips pressing against the top of my head. “I will hunt them. I will make each and every fucking one of those bastards pay for shooting my goddamn dog.”

My heart thumps loudly in my chest and all I can do is nod in response.

“Every single fucking McCleary is dead.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

ROMAN

“Are you sure this is the shooter?” I growl, staring from the edge of the enclosure, my breath turning to steam in the freezing fall air.

“No,” Cal sighs, sounding disappointed.

“What do you mean, no?” I hiss angrily.

“Even on the security cameras we could hardly identify anyone as they scrambled from the building,” Cal explains, crossing his arms. “And by the time we got there, the McCleary’s had all cleared out of the place.”

“Who the fuck is this then?” I snort, glaring at the man in the middle of the abandoned roller derby, his hands and feet shackled into the cuffs that are built into the metal chair he sits in. “Since you just said you couldn’t identify anyone?”

Cal grins wickedly.

“I said hardly anyone. We did get one hit. On the license plate of one of the cars parked around the block.”

My head snaps back to the man in the chair. It’s then that I recognize the same green eyes, and facial features.

“He’s a McCleary,” I whisper under my breath. “Blood relative.”

“Yes, Sir,” Cal nods. “Sean McCleary. Second cousin.”

The longer I stare at him, the more I recognize him. He was the man who tried to jump me at the warehouse. One of them.

After I got the pictures of Pasha, I’d gone there, alone, hoping to discuss a ceasefire or at least to cull their efforts to stalk Pasha.