Chapter 10
AMALIE
“Iguess it’s my coping mechanism.”
He steps close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my back. He doesn’t touch me. Not yet.
“What happened?” He steps to my side, glancing in my direction before turning his attention to the trees.
I don’t know how much I want to tell him, so I go with the bare minimum. “Just an irritating phone call from someone I didn’t want to hear from.”
“Who?”
“Someone from my past.” I can sense by the way his jaw works that he’s debating whether or not to press or let it go.
“Did whoever it was threaten you?”
“No.” The word shoots out of my mouth as if I don’t want to give myself the chance to lie and get him to send his goons after Max. Never in a million years would I do that, but it’s a nice thought.
“It was my ex,” I blurt out.
Screw it.
“Your ex?”
“Yeah. And he reminded me of all the reasons why he’s my ex.”
He says nothing, but his silence says tell me all the same.
“He used to say I was too much. Too soft, too heavy. Took up too much space. He tried to make me smaller both literally and figuratively.”
His jaw tightens. He’s pissed. I can’t help but wonder what Roman would do if Max magically appeared in front of him right now.
“And you believed him when he said those things?”
“I tried not to. But words can stick when someone says them often enough.”
Roman says nothing for several long moments. I like that about him—he thinks, considers. Really weighs his words before responding.
“You don’t belong to that man’s cruelty anymore,” he says quietly. “Nothing he says defines you. Only you can define yourself.”
“He thinks I’m an idiot, that I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.”
“And is that how you feel?”
I think of my situation, the house I live in with hidden rooms and cameras, guards and a Russian mobster watching over it all. “Maybe. But this job isn’t exactly normal.”
“True. But you’re here, you’re teaching a child to harness his talent by using your talents. And you’re working to take care of your family. These are not small things.”
I don’t know what to say. I frown and look away without replying.
“You’re unsettled.”
“I’m angry,” I correct.
“Then come with me.”
“What, like earlier?” I ask warily.
“Doesn’t have to be. Could be different.”
Do I want different? All I can say for sure is that he’s right—I don’t want to be alone right now.
“Come.” He offers his hand.
Every rational instinct tells me to go back to my room.
Instead, I take his hand.
He leads me to the hallway. My door’s open a bit, and I realize this is my last chance to go back in there, shut and lock the door like I did last night.
But I don’t.
We go to his door, massive and made of oak. He pulls it open. The room on the other side is huge, dark, and expansive with two enormous arched windows looking out over the garden, the moon casting silver light through the space.
There’s a massive bed, a bookshelf with what appears to be a carefully curated assortment of classics, and a pair of dressers.
A large, standing mirror is against the wall.
It’s simple, clean, minimal—the type of orderly space a man like him, someone who carries so much, would want to end up in at the end of each day.
“Sit,” he says, gently motioning to the end of the bed.
I do.
He steps over to a bar cart and lifts a bottle of whiskey. He pours a small amount of the amber liquid into two glasses. Then he returns to me, handing me one.
“You are not too much,” he says quietly. “You are not excess.”
My throat tightens. I lower my eyes to the whiskey. “He always had a way of making me feel like I should apologize just for existing.”
Roman’s hand closes over mine on the glass. It’s warm. Solid. “Then tonight, you do not apologize for anything.”
A small smile forms on my lips. I lift my eyes to see he’s standing over me, looming like a Greek god.
“We need to toast to something, right?” I ask.
He nods solemnly. “We do. How about to taking up space.”
I chuckle. “I like that.”
We tap glasses sip. The whiskey’s delicious, perfect for a cold night like tonight.
“I shouldn’t be in here,” I say after a moment.
“And yet you are. You can leave at any time.”
I sigh. “I’m your employee.”
“You are a woman who was wounded by a man who has no right to cut you. That comes first.” He sits down next to me, close enough that his warmth touches my skin in a way I’m starting to crave.
The room feels smaller suddenly.
Roman takes another sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. It’s hard to make out his expression.
Silence stretches, heavy and intimate.
“I don’t like that he made you feel small,” he says. “This fool of a man. Men who behave like that act as if they’re operating from a place of strength. But in reality, it’s weakness. They see a woman they can’t control but try anyway. They’re afraid of a woman they can’t dominate.”
My breath catches at that word.
Dominate.
When I associate it with Max, it makes me sick to my stomach. But with Roman…
“I guess I was easy to dominate at one point,” I say quietly.
He shakes his head. “Wrong. You’re here because you weren’t. You saw his weakness. And you rejected it.”
His words hit me deeply, and once again, I don’t know what to say in response.
After a tiny sip of whiskey, I set my glass on the nightstand, noticing that my hands have a slight tremble to them. In that moment, I become acutely aware of how exposed I feel sitting on Roman’s bed. How vulnerable.
How chosen.
Roman reaches toward me. I know I could stop him if I wanted to.
I don’t want to.
He brushes a loose strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear in the same way he did in the hot tub. Without thinking, I push my face against his touch, yearning for more. A shiver runs through me, the good kind.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“Yeah. I’m a little cold.”
It’s a lie. The reason I’m shaking is because of Roman’s nearness, his touch, and it’s almost too much for my body to handle. My pussy clenches, my nipples harden. My breath comes in shallow pulls.
His hand stays on my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. His touch is gentle, reverent even. I tilt my face into his hand.
A sudden thought occurs to me.
He’s killed with these hands.
I don’t move.
“Amalie,” he says softly.
There’s something about the way this man speaks my name in his accented voice.
Roman leans in just enough so I can feel his breath against my lips. It’s warm, with a little smokiness from the whiskey. The space between us narrows to nearly nothing. I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the dark stubble on his chiseled jaw.
For a moment, he just stares, like he’s committing my face to memory. Then his hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer until my knees brush his thighs.
When his mouth finally finds mine, I can tell the kiss is different than it was last night.
It’s slower. Deeper. Less about raw hunger and more about something else.
His lips move against mine with wonderful patience, letting me feel every drag, every shift of his mouth.
I melt into him and don’t even try to fight it.
The kiss deepens. My panties are soaked, and without thinking I place my hand on his hardness through his slacks. He’s long, thick, solid. I drag my fingertips along his length. He groans against my mouth before pulling back with a wicked smirk on his lips.
“Tonight, let’s try for no running after.”
“Deal.”