Chapter 21 Roman
Roman
It’s been weeks since the bullet tore through me.
Weeks since Archer pressed his hands to my chest, while Lottie stood frozen in the doorway with her eyes wide and wet like the world was ending.
The wound’s closed now, the stitches dissolved, the bruises faded into yellow and green shadows on my skin.
Physically, I’m fine.
I can walk, breathe, and even train again in small bursts, but the ache hasn’t left. It lives deeper than bone. It’s not just pain in my chest where the bullet went—it’s in the hollow spaces of this house, in the way every laugh and whispered conversation feels like something I’ve been cut out of.
We’ve settled into a routine.
Chaotic, yet it somehow works for them.
Archer is her anchor, steady and unrelenting, always near enough to catch her if she falters.
Oscar is her quiet, constant presence—never demanding, just there, a foundation she can lean against. Crew, loud-mouthed as he is, circles her like he’s just waiting for the gates to open so he can plant himself at her side without anyone biting his head off.
And Elijah. Christ. Elijah hovers like a shadow stitched to her heels.
He doesn’t speak unless she does, doesn’t move unless she allows it.
He lurks in doorways, lingers at the edges of rooms, his whole existence tied to her breathing.
Sometimes I swear I see the way his hands twitch, like it takes every ounce of control not to reach for her.
Everyone calls it penance, but to me it feels like an obsession dressed up in silence.
Then there’s me.
Roman, the outsider. Roman, the fuck-up. Roman, the one she still can’t look at without flinching.
The jealousy burns, sharp and constant. It coils in my gut every time I see Archer press his lips to her temple, every time Oscar’s hand brushes hers and she doesn’t flinch.
It’s not that I think I deserve it—I know I don’t.
Not after everything I did. Not after everything my family carved into her life. But watching her give pieces of herself to them, while she won’t even look me in the eye half the time… it guts me.
I hate them.
Hate that they’re all here getting to be around her without her flinching or removing herself.
But mostly I hate myself.
Because the truth is, I’m not much better. I still hover. Still waiting for scraps. Still cling to whatever small moments she doesn’t shut me out completely.
I want to be the one she doesn’t shy away from. I want to be the one she lets touch her without fear. I want—fuck, I want so much it makes me sick.
But I’m not. I’m not the one she lets in. I’m the one she avoids. The one she sidesteps in hallways, the one whose voice makes her stiffen.
And maybe I deserve that. Maybe that’s all I’ll ever deserve.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me, snapping me out of the spiral. I glance down and see the name flash across the screen.
Pacheco
Shipment expected next week. Same port. You’ve got the product, yes?
Me
Shipment’s ready. Same crates, same schedule. You’ll have it.
And it’s not a lie. I learned years ago to be able to schedule everything from tapping away on my phone, while I couldn’t walk from a beating from my father. Now, I’m running an empire from Claire’s sofa—an empire I still need to be able to take my father down.
I shove the phone face down and rub my hands over my face, trying to chase the anger out of me before I explode.
“Roman?”
Her voice.
My spine stiffens instantly. I lower my hands, and there she is, standing in the doorway like she’s not sure she belongs in the same room as me.
Her hair’s messy, her sweater hanging loose off one shoulder. She looks small, fragile, but her eyes—they’re sharp, wary, watchful.
My throat goes dry. “Hey.”
She doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me, arms crossed over her chest like armor.
I should let her walk away. Shouldn’t ask for more than she’s willing to give. But the words spill out before I can stop them.
“Sit with me?”
Her brow furrows. “Why?”
“Because…” I swallow, forcing the lump down. “Because I need to talk to you.”
For a moment, I think she’ll bolt. Her weight shifts, her fingers twitch against her sleeves. But then—slowly—she crosses the room and lowers herself onto the far end of the sofa. Not close. Not even halfway. Just… there.
It’s more than I’ve had in months.
I take a breath that scrapes my throat raw. “Do you ever wonder why I—” I break off, jaw clenching. “Why I was such an asshole to you at school?”
Her eyes snap to mine, dark and sharp. “All the time.”
The words slice me open.
I nod, jaw tight. “It wasn’t just me. It wasn’t just because I hated you. It was because…” My chest constricts, but I force it out. “Because he made me.”
Her brow furrows. “I know all of this, Roman.”
“I know… but my dad,” I clarify. My voice is rough, low.
“He told me to. He said if I didn’t break you, if I didn’t make your life hell, I’d pay for it.
And I did. Every time I slipped, every time I hesitated—he beat the shit out of me.
Some days were so bad I couldn’t even walk.
Couldn’t sit in a chair at school without wincing from the lashes on my back from the belt, or if I was really lucky, a broken bone.
Sometimes I couldn’t show up at all. That’s why.
That’s why I—” My throat closes, but I force the words out.
“I turned it on you. I made you the target because it meant I wasn’t the one bleeding. ”
Her lips part, but no words come.
“I hated it,” I whisper. “I hated knowing I was hurting you, hated knowing I was becoming exactly what he wanted me to be. But the worst part? Sometimes… sometimes I liked it.”
Her eyes widen, pain flickering across her face, and I feel bile rise in my throat.
“I liked seeing you flinch. I liked knowing I could break something beautiful because he couldn’t break me that day. It was sick. Twisted. And every time it happened, I hated myself more. Because it didn’t make me strong, it didn’t make me powerful. It just made me like him.”
The words hang heavy between us, choking the air out of the room.
She whispers, voice trembling, “He liked me broken, too.”
It’s not a scream, just a fact, and it wrecks me. I nod slowly, eyes stinging. “I know.”
Her arms tighten around herself, and I want to reach out, want to touch her, want to beg—but I don’t. I don’t dare.
“I can’t undo it,” I say. “I can’t erase it. I can only tell you the truth now. Even if it makes you hate me more.”
She stares at me, silent, her breath uneven.
It’s safer to tell her the truth than to let her keep guessing. That’s what I tell myself, even though my voice comes out low, almost ashamed.
“I tried to refuse,” I say.
And I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t believe me.
I don’t blame her. Not after everything I’ve done. Not after everything she’s survived because of me. So I do the only thing I can. I move.
My fingers hook into the hem of my shirt. I strip it off with the same practiced ease I’ve used a thousand times in the mirror, but this time there’s no mirror…only her.
Lottie.
Her breath catches, and I know what she’s seeing isn’t just muscle. It’s a history carved into skin.
Raised scars. Jagged seams. Some faint as ghost trails, others still livid, purple-edged, refusing to fade. I’ve stopped counting them.
I turn my back to her, because if she’s going to know me, she needs to see all of it—the map of pain, the graveyard.
I feel her eyes catch on the welt under my shoulder blade. I almost flinch before she can even touch it. I lift my hand instead, fingers brushing it like a reflex. “This was the first,” I murmur. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “I refused to hurt you… So he hurt me instead.”
Her voice is soft, tremoring. “With his belt?”
I wish it had been. At least then it would have been familiar. I shake my head, and a bitter smile drags at my mouth. “I wish.”
She says my name like it might anchor me. “Roman.” I hear the heartbreak in her voice.
I can’t look at her.
If I look, I’ll see pity. I’ll see fear. I’ll see everything I don’t deserve.
“I’m no saint,” I hear myself confess. “I enjoyed hurting you. Not because it was you. But because it meant I wasn’t alone in it… the pain.” My throat is dry. “But some of the things he wanted me to do to you… I couldn’t.”
Her fingers graze the scar along my shoulder, and for a heartbeat, my body is a live wire. I inhale sharply, then let it out like I’m bleeding air.
“Don’t make me say it,” I whisper. “I’m already a monster. If I say it, if I see it in your eyes… I won’t survive that.”
Her voice cuts through me, quiet but firm. “Try me.”
I don’t know why I do, maybe because she’s the only one who ever saw the boy underneath the monster, maybe because this is the only way to kill what’s left of me.
“He wanted me to take you,” I whisper, each word like glass.
“To see if I would. It was a test. And God help me, for a moment… I considered it. Not because I wanted to break you—not like that. But because I thought maybe if you were mine, if I took you somewhere safe, somewhere far from him, I could keep you. Protect you.”
She stares at me, heart hammering, and I feel the walls inside me crumble. “And when you refused?” she asks.
Slowly, I turn and take her hand, moving it away from my back, because she can’t touch that word. I show her instead.
Carved into my skin.
Coward.
The letters are uneven, cruel. He carved it so deep I thought he might kill me.
Sometimes I think he did, and I’m just what’s left walking around.
“Please don’t touch that,” I whisper. “I can’t stand the thought of your hands on that word.”
“There’s no shame in any of this, Roman,” She says, her voice shaking. “You were a victim. We both were.”
She’s wrong. I shake my head. “No. I chose to stay. I chose to be a part of it. That makes me different from you.”
“That’s not true—”