13. Lucas
THIRTEEN
Lucas
Sitting on the bed in my jeans and sweatshirt, I watch Roman over the top of the book. We finished it a few days ago—at least I think it was a few days; it’s so hard to track time here—and I’m rereading it for lack of other options. Roman is at the punching bag.
I think he’s upset. I’m not sure what’s bothering him.
After he told me his name, we had a few good days. It was wonderful. Reading to him. Having sex with him. Listening to him speak.
Mostly, he uses words to ask me questions. I think he now knows more about me than anyone ever has. It was hard at first to talk about myself, but I’m getting better at it. I don’t have any choice. He’s so insistent.
He’s also very stubborn and won’t reciprocate. He shuts down when I ask him anything about himself.
Still, we were making progress. He let me tease him about his reactions to The Shining . He wasn’t joking that he doesn’t like horror. At one point, he took the book from me and stuffed it under the mattress, shuddered, and said, “No.”
But once we finished the book, once our days settled back into sleep, sex, food, and working out, his mood started to decline.
I set the book aside and get up. He’s been at the punching bag for hours. Enough is enough.
I walk across the cell to him. I go to the opposite side of the punching bag and grab it. It still shocks me to be so bold, especially with someone as dangerous as Roman. But in a weird way, it’s easier with him than with anyone. He’s never sneering nor indirect. There’s no subtext. I can trust his reactions and expressions. I can trust his words when he offers them.
The bag thumps against me with his next punch. And his next. They’re half power but still enough to rattle my teeth. He thinks I’ll give up, but I won’t.
The bag goes still. I peer around it. Under his lowered brows, his dark eyes flick to me.
I know he’s violent. I know he’s genuinely dangerous. But I also know that he won’t hurt me.
“Move,” he says.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
He scowls and focuses on the bag. He punches it lightly.
“Roman.”
He flinches at his name. I’ve never said it before. I’ve wanted to but haven’t because of how hard it was for him to give it to me. So I’m not entirely surprised at his flinch, but it bothers me all the same.
A lot bothers me.
It sweeps through me suddenly, a wave of despair.
The things that I love about being here with him aren’t enough. This place is bad and dangerous and wrong. We’re captives. We can be killed or abused at any time. The only reason I’m safe is because Roman stands between me and our captors. His abusers.
And they’re not his first abusers. He won’t tell me what Crowley was talking about with the prison and arena that he bought Roman from, but I can make my own guesses. And I can see from the varying ages of Roman’s scars and I can tell from the ways he’s adapted, that he’s been in terrible circumstances for a long time.
That’s why he won’t tell me anything about himself or his past. It’s too traumatic for him.
And the future here only holds more of the same. I know that. I know, too, that eventually he’ll be killed, and so will I.
Most of the time, I don’t let myself think about that, but it’s always hovering in the background. It’s part of what makes me focus so intensely on the present, enjoy it so much—because I know it won’t last, and even the present is only bright between its black moments. It’s only bright when I focus solely on Roman and ignore our larger reality.
This isn’t okay. Of course it’s not.
Roman’s gaze meets mine again. Maybe he sees the despair in my eyes. I certainly see it in his. Then anger spills into his eyes again.
“Move,” he snaps, and this time I do.
As he starts hitting the bag again, I watch how his anger saves him. I see how it keeps him upright, how it keeps him fighting, how it’s helped him survive.
But that doesn’t work for me. My eyes prickle. Tears spill down my cheeks. The world blurs and tilts.
Then Roman is there. He grabs onto me and holds me tight against him.
I wrap my arms around his sweaty torso. I let him hold me up. His breath puffs against my head. His hand grips the back of my neck.
He says quietly, terrifyingly, “ I will fix this .”
***
I spend several days on edge. I’m afraid of what Roman will do, of what the consequences will be. I can’t enjoy our next shower or even the fresh blankets when we get back. I barely react when my clothes are finally taken and laundered for me.
But nothing happens—because there’s nothing that can happen.
Roman can’t fix this because there are no opportunities. There never have been, or he wouldn’t be in this position. He wouldn’t have years of scars on his body.
I feel guilty that I’m relieved, and I’m well aware that my sense of security is false. I only need a glimpse of his scars to remind myself of that. I only need to remember that shock collar around his neck or the threatening way that Briggs looks at him. We’re vulnerable to abuse, especially him because he protects me. He’ll have to fight again. We’re in a bad place.
I know that.
But then we lie on the bed while I read our new book, Starship Troopers , and I feel safe with him. I feel, for the first time in my life, like I’m home. Because this space that contains only us is good.
I surprise myself with a yawn mid-sentence. I don’t know why I’m so sleepy. We just ate breakfast. I get through a few more sentences before I find my eyes drifting closed.
“Lucas.”
Roman’s hand on my shoulder half wakes me. I fumble for the book, which has fallen from my grasp.
The mattress shifts as Roman gets up. That stirs me enough to watch as he steps over me. He stumbles, barely catching himself.
I try to get up, but I can’t. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a wordless mumble of concern. A door opens and closes. Roman snarls, but I can’t see who’s approaching the bars. My eyes are closed, I realize. I can’t open them.
I hear Briggs say, “It’s a long drive to Boston, Beast. Maybe I’ll get my turn.”
I hear another snarl—then the heavy thud of Roman’s body hitting the floor.