8. Amanda
— ? —
Amanda
The cabin sits at the end of a dirt road, three hours from the city.
Roman’s safe house. His refuge from the Vance family legacy. The place he disappeared to when Julian exiled him from the business, the money, the name.
It’s smaller than I expected. Log walls. A stone fireplace. Windows that look out onto nothing but trees and sky and the approaching storm.
“It’s not much,” Roman says as he carries in the last of our supplies. “But it’s off the grid. No one knows about it. We can regroup here, figure out our next move-”
“It’s perfect.”
He stops. Looks at me.
“You mean that?”
“I spent two years in a concrete box.” I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in - the worn leather couch, the quilts draped over chairs, the smell of wood smoke and pine. “This is a palace.”
***
The storm hits an hour after we arrive.
Not just rain this time. Wind that shakes the walls. Thunder that rattles the windows. Lightning that turns the sky white and the trees into silhouettes.
The power flickers. Goes out.
“Candles in the kitchen,” Roman says. “I’ll start a fire.”
We work in comfortable silence. He builds a fire in the stone fireplace - paper, kindling, logs, the same methodical precision he brings to everything. I find candles and matches and a bottle of wine that’s been waiting here for God knows how long.
By the time the fire is crackling, the cabin glows with orange light. The storm rages outside, but in here, it’s warm. Safe.
Dangerous.
“There’s only one bed.”
Roman says it like an apology. Like a confession.
“I noticed.”
“I can take the couch. It’s not as uncomfortable as it looks-”
“Roman.”
He stops.
I walk toward him. The firelight catches the angles of his face, the darkness in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.
“I don’t want you on the couch.”
“Amanda-”
“We kissed in the truck. You told me you love me. I told you I love you back.” I stop in front of him. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch. “Are we really going to pretend that changes nothing?”
“I don’t want you to regret-”
“The only thing I regret is waiting this long.”
I reach for him.
He lets me.
***
His hands tremble against my skin.
I feel it when he touches my face, my shoulders, the hem of my shirt. This man who faced down Julian without flinching - his fingers are unsteady now.
“I’ve thought about this,” he says. His voice is rough. “For five years, I’ve thought about this.”
“Tell me.”
“The night before your wedding. I couldn’t sleep. I came downstairs for a drink, and you were in the kitchen. Barefoot. Still in your dress from the rehearsal dinner. You were redoing the seating chart because my mother wanted it changed.”
“I remember.”
“You were talking to yourself. Muttering about how difficult she was, how demanding, how impossible to please. And then you laughed.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “This little surprised laugh, like you’d said something that caught you off guard. And I thought-”
“What?”
“I thought: that’s the woman I should have found first.”
My chest aches.
“Roman-”
“I should have said something. I should have told Julian to go to hell and stolen you away and-” He shakes his head. “But I didn’t. I let you marry him. I let him hurt you. And I will never forgive myself for that.”
“You’re here now.”
“I’m here now.”
“That’s enough.” I rise up on my toes. Press my lips to his. “That’s more than enough.”
He lifts me. My back hits the wall, and his mouth finds my throat, and I gasp - this sharp, desperate sound I don’t recognize.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not enough.”
Two years. Two years of looking away. Two years of pretending I didn’t feel his eyes on me across every room. Two years of lying to myself.
He groans - low, wrecked - and carries me toward the bedroom. The storm howls outside, rain lashing the windows, and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the grip of his hands on my thighs, the way his breath comes ragged against my neck.
The bed is old, brass frame, quilts piled high. He lowers me onto it carefully, his breath catching as he reaches for the hem of my shirt.
“Let me,” I whisper.
We undress each other. Not slowly - I can’t do slow, not now, not after everything - but he makes me. He stops my frantic hands. Holds my wrists.
“Wait.”
“Roman-”
“I’ve wanted this for two years.” His voice is rough. Broken. “I’m not rushing it.”
He peels my shirt over my head. Unhooks my bra with careful fingers. And then he just - looks at me. His jaw tight. His chest heaving.
“Christ, Amanda.”
I reach for him, but he catches my hands again. Presses them back into the mattress.
“Let me have this.”
His mouth finds my throat. My shoulder. The soft skin beneath my ear. He kisses down, down, and I arch into him, desperate for more contact, more pressure, more anything-
“Please-”
“I’ve got you.” He traces his tongue along the curve of my breast, and I whimper. “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”
I map his body while he maps mine - a compass on his ribs, words in Latin down his spine, a dark shape over his heart that I’ll ask about later. Later. When I can think.
His mouth closes over my nipple, and I cry out.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my skin. “Let me hear you.”
He works me over with his mouth - one breast, then the other, his tongue circling, teasing, while his hand slides down my stomach. My hips lift off the bed, seeking him.
“I won’t break,” I whisper.
“Good.” His voice is rough.
“Then stop being careful.”
His control snaps.
He yanks my jeans down my legs. My underwear follows. And then his mouth is on my inner thigh, and I’m shaking, actually shaking, my hands fisted in the quilts.
“Roman-”
“I’ve thought about this.” He kisses higher. Higher. His breath hot against the wet center of me. “Every night for two years. Thought about how you’d taste.”
The first stroke of his tongue makes me see stars.
“Oh my god-”
“Better than I imagined.” He licks into me, slow and devastating, and I can’t breathe. “So sweet. So perfect.”
He eats me like he’s starving for it. Like he’s been starving for two years and I’m the first real thing he’s tasted. His tongue finds my clit, circles it, and my thighs clamp around his head.
“That’s my girl.” He slides a finger inside me, and I clench around him, desperate. “Look at you. So wet for me. Been waiting for this, haven’t you?”
“Yes-” It comes out broken. “Yes, I-”
He adds a second finger. Crooks them up. Finds that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
“Roman, I’m going to-”
He pulls back.
I actually sob.
“Not yet.” He kisses my hip. The soft skin below my navel. “Not until I’m inside you.”
“Please-”
“Say it again.”
“Please.”
He rises over me, and I reach for his belt, frantic now, my hands clumsy with need. He helps me - shoves his jeans down, kicks them off - and then he’s naked above me, and he’s beautiful, and I want him so badly I could scream.
“I love you.”
He says it against my skin. Against my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
“I love you, I love you, I-”
“Show me.”
He reaches between us. Lines himself up. And then he pauses, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard.
“You’re sure?”
“Roman.” I wrap my legs around his hips. “If you don’t make love to me right now, I swear to god-”
He pushes in.
Slowly.
I forget how to breathe. How to think. There’s only this - the stretch of him, the fullness, the way my body opens around him like it was always meant to.
“Look at me.” His voice is wrecked. “Amanda. Look at me.”
I open my eyes. His are wet.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I’ve always known.” He pulls back, almost all the way out, and I whimper at the loss.
He thrusts back in, deeper this time, and my nails rake down his back.
“Oh god-”
“You feel so good.” He sets a rhythm - slow, deep, devastating. “So tight around me. Like you were made for this.”
I’m drowning. Every stroke sends sparks up my spine, heat coiling low in my belly, building and building. The headboard knocks against the wall. The storm rages outside. And he’s everywhere - his weight pressing me into the mattress, his mouth on my throat, his hands gripping my hips.
“Harder,” I gasp. “Please, I need-”
He gives me what I need.
The pace turns urgent. Consuming. Two years of denied wanting finally unleashed, and I take it all, take him, my legs wrapped around his waist.
“That’s it.” His voice is ragged. “Take it. Take all of me.”
The pressure builds unbearably. I’m so close - right at the edge-
“Roman, I can’t - I’m going to-”
“Let go.” He reaches between us, finds my clit, rubs tight circles. “Let me feel you. Let me see you fall apart.”
The orgasm rips through me like lightning - white-hot, devastating - and I cry out his name, clenching around him, my whole body shaking.
He works me through it, murmuring praise against my skin - that’s it, that’s my girl, so beautiful when you come - and then his rhythm stutters, and he buries himself deep, and I feel him pulse inside me.
“Amanda-” My name breaks in his throat.
We stay like that for a long time. Tangled together. His face pressed to my neck. My hands stroking down his sweat-slick back.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispers finally.
The tears spill over then. I let them.
He kisses them away - every single one - and when he finally softens and slips out of me, he pulls me against his chest and holds me like he’ll never let go.
Outside, the storm begins to quiet.
***
His arm across my waist. My head on his chest. The fire has burned down to embers, and the cabin is quiet except for our breathing and the occasional crack of thunder in the distance.
“What if I can’t tell my love for you apart from wanting them to burn?”
The words slip out before I can stop them. The fear I’ve been carrying since the prison gates opened.
Roman’s arm tightens around me.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if I love you because you’re you, or because you’re my weapon against them.” I press my face into his chest. “I don’t know if what I’m feeling is real, or if it’s just - revenge in a different shape.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. His hand strokes down my spine.
“Do you want me?” he asks finally.
“Yes.”
“Not as a weapon. Just me. Right now, in this bed, do you want me?”
“Yes.”
“Then the rest doesn’t matter.” He tips my chin up. Makes me look at him. “Love is messy. It doesn’t come with clean edges and clear motivations. You can love me and want them to burn. You can heal and still crave justice. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”
“What if I’m too broken to tell the difference?”
“Then we figure it out together.” He kisses my forehead. “Just like we figure out everything else.”
I fall asleep in his arms.
For the first time in two years, I don’t dream of prison. I don’t dream of Julian’s cold eyes or Vivienne’s satisfied smile or my mother’s turned back.
I dream of nothing.
***
I wake to Roman’s phone buzzing on the nightstand.
He reaches for it without opening his eyes. Checks the screen. Frowns.
“What is it?”
“Text from David. Our witness.” He sits up, and I feel the cold rush of air where his body was. “He says someone’s been following him. A black car, parked outside his apartment.”
“Julian’s people?”
“Probably.” Roman is already out of bed, pulling on his jeans. “The DA was building a criminal case against Julian and Vivienne - obstruction of justice, evidence tampering, conspiracy. David was going to be their star witness.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Amanda-”
“I’m not hiding in a cabin while you do all the work.” I reach for my clothes. “We’re partners. Remember?”
He looks at me. Something shifts in his expression - respect, maybe. Or worry.
“Partners,” he agrees.
We’re halfway to the door when my phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number.
I shouldn’t open it. I know I shouldn’t open it.
I open it anyway.
The message is simple. Five words.
Your sister wants to talk.