21. Lucas
TWENTY-ONE
Lucas
This room is amazing. This whole house is amazing. I didn’t really take it in that first night when Vitali questioned me. Then, if anything, the size and grandness felt threatening. But now I’m curled up in a huge plush armchair in a library. A whole freaking library.
I could spend hours here. Maybe I already have. When I decided to break Roman’s … rule, I guess I should call it, my plan was to get a look at the whole house. I started to. I saw some of it. But the second I found this room, I got sucked in.
This is where Roman has been getting all the books. There must be thousands of them. I could spend days here, and not just because of the books. I love the old-fashioned feel of this room with all the dark wood and leather furniture, the fireplace and the lamps with colorful glass shades.
Libraries are sanctuaries for people like me, people who don’t belong anywhere.
In high school, I used to spend all my lunch periods in the library. Outside of wrestling season, I used to spend all my afternoons in the public library. I had no real friends, and I hated being at home, shut up in my room so that Frank could pretend I didn’t exist.
I know that Roman has been keeping me closed up for a different reason, but every time he leaves, I get that heavy, awful feeling that I used to have all the time living in Frank’s house.
Tonight, it was creeping in again. I found myself curled up in the bed, quiet and still like I used to be, but something happened. It was so abrupt that I was completely unprepared for it.
All of a sudden, I was so angry. I threw the covers aside and launched myself from the bed. I snatched up the bedside lamp and hurled it across the room. Something about the way it hit the wall and shattered broke something loose inside me.
I recalled, abruptly, that I stabbed someone to death not long ago. I realized that if I was capable of that, then I was certainly capable of opening a door that wasn’t even locked.
So that’s what I did.
As I stormed down the hallway, my angry stride checked at the sound of someone running up the main staircase. The man halted when he saw me. I recognized him from the night Roman and I arrived here. He was big and intimidating, and I braced myself to refuse any order to return to my room.
That order never came. Not only did he back off, I detected a hint of approval in his eyes. I kept walking, heading down the stairs that he had just run up. Though he trailed me through the house, he kept a good distance between us and never spoke to me.
I don’t know where he is now, but I haven’t seen him since I entered the library.
When I hear a door somewhere in the house, my heart skips. When I hear voices in the distance then footsteps, I fight the impulse to scurry back to the bedroom like I would’ve done in Frank’s house. I know Roman will be angry but—
I jump when he appears in the doorway. His face is blood splattered—and furious. His eyebrows are drawn low, his dark eyes burning.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
The impulse to get defensive rears up inside me, but I make myself reply simply, “Reading.”
His nostrils flare. “I told you to stay in our room.”
One thing I’ve learned from Roman is that sometimes silence is more powerful than words, so I don’t reply. I know he told me to stay in the room. This is me saying that’s not okay.
He growls and starts stalking my way.
As I face his anger, I’m struck by a certain irony. Roman is far scarier and infinitely more dangerous than my stepfather. But where my stepfather’s approach would have cowed me, Roman’s doesn’t.
Frank made me feel small and unwanted. Roman makes me feel the opposite. It’s Roman who’s made me believe that I deserve to take up space. It’s Roman who’s made me feel loved.
So when he looms over me and wraps his hand around my throat, I do not submit to him. When he starts to squeeze, I do not fear him. I know he won’t hurt me—because I know that he loves me.
His love is dark. It’s intense. It’s possessive.
It’s everything I need.
On a certain level, I even like the fact that he wants to contain me, that it’s so important to him to possess me. But I can’t let him. I cannot yield. I will not. But I know, I know absolutely, that he will.
And he does.
His grip loosens until his hand is resting gently on my throat. His eyes are tormented. Even without the blood splattering his face, I would know from his expression that something happened tonight.
I tell him, “I will not stay in that room.”
“But it’s good ,” he says.
“Not for me.”
His eyes dart back and forth across my face. He doesn’t understand. I could try to explain myself, but the explanation doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he accepts what I say.
Our eyes stay locked for a long, long time. I see the shift in his, how his anger fades, how his confusion gives way to acceptance. When he takes hold of me and lifts me from the chair, disappointment drags at my heart. I think he’s going to take me upstairs.
But he doesn’t. He turns and settles into the chair with me on his lap. I shift so I’m crosswise. I tuck my face against his neck. I slide one hand inside his jacket to curl it around his ribcage.
His arms are around me. He’s trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I rub my thumb against his ribs through his shirt. I kiss his throat to tell him that I know.
“I don’t want you to be unhappy,” he says.
“I know.”
I want to ask him if he’s okay, but I can tell he’s not, so I just let the minutes pass. I let our closeness return.
His chest pushes against me as it expands on a deep breath. He’s starting to relax.
“Do you want me to read?” I ask. He likes when I read to him. I like it too.
“Yes,” he says. Then, “Hold on, what are you reading?”
“ The Stand .”
“Fuck.”
“I also found a great copy of Winnie-the-Pooh , if you’d prefer that.”
He nips my ear. “Are you making fun of me?”
I chuckle. “A little. But I like doing the voices.”
“I love when you do voices.”
“You do?” I ask, pleased. He’s never told me that.
“Yes. Where’s the book?”
“Beside the chair.”
He leans over, muscles shifting as he stretches away from me. I twist to look at him, wondering at the blood on his face, worrying about it.
“Whose blood is that?”
“Liam Crowley’s,” he answers, handing me the book.
“Not yours?”
“No.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I let it go. All that really matters is that he’s not hurt, and even if he’s not exactly okay, he’s calming down. He’s settling. That’s enough.
I rest the book on my lap but don’t open it yet. I observe, “This is a great room.”
“Yeah.”
“Somebody really loved this room,” I say, fishing, hoping I’ll get something from him.
He falls silent. I feel him swallow. He clears his throat. “My mother,” he answers quietly.
I rub the dense muscle of his chest with my hand. I don’t really expect him to give me any more than that, but he says, “She was good at voices too.”
I tilt my face so I can nuzzle at his throat. He gazes down at me. His eyes are soft now, even though his face is still splattered with blood.
He says, “Read to me,” so I do.