17. Roman
ROMAN
Abuzzing noise drags me from my sleep; sharp and insistent against the quiet of the room. I groan, half-aware, shifting instinctively only to stop in my tracks.
She is still here.
Fae’s body is warm and pliant, her legs tangled with mine, her arm flung over my chest like she anchored herself there sometime in the night. For a disorienting second, I think I am dreaming. Then Fae exhales, slow and soft, her breath brushing my skin. She is real. She is here.
I tighten my hold on her without thinking, drawing her closer as I press my nose into her hair.
Vanilla and honey. Always vanilla and honey.
The faintest hint of her perfume clings to her skin and I breathe it in like it is my drug of choice.
Because it is. Her pale skin is impossibly soft beneath my hands as I gently rub her waist under the quilt.
She is still warm from sleep, her face peaceful in a way I have never seen before and in that moment, I make another silent promise to her.
Whether asleep or awake, one day soon she is going to look this peaceful all the time.
Of course, she has some ghosts we need to fight first, but like I told her last night, I will be there every step of the way. If she will have me. If she won’t, I will still do it, just from the shadows instead.
Memories of last night flicker through my mind in perfect detail.
I can feel my cock growing hard at the memory playing out in front of me.
Her moans, her cries, her heat, the way she trusted me and kept going.
We fucked three more times before her body gave out.
The sun was already rising before sleep claimed her.
It is only the knowledge that she is exhausted that stops me from spinning her around now and taking her again.
The buzzing starts again and I realise it is my phone. Moving slowly so I do not wake her, I pick it up from the bedside table and check the caller ID. Dad flashes on the screen and I internally groan. My dad calling me at 8am is never a good sign. Sending it to voicemail, I drop him a text.
Roman:
can’t talk what’s wrong?
Mr Longstaff:
I need you to come in for a meeting. My office. 30 minutes.
I sigh. The one morning Fae seems relaxed enough with me and I am already being called out. The thought of leaving this room is a chore in itself but the thought of waking her feels impossible.
I continue to hold her for a moment, sacrificing my shower just to be in her presence a little longer before I slowly roll out of bed.
Fae stirs, reaching out instinctively to grab the pillow I was sleeping on.
Pulling it into her body, it is like she is searching for me even in her sleep.
That tightness in my chest happens again as I watch her snuggle into the pillow and settle.
I quickly throw on a pair of jeans, a black tee and a leather jacket, brush my teeth, then hunt for a pen and paper.
Tinkerbell,
I have to meet with my dad; I didn’t want to wake you. You looked too beautiful and peaceful. Have a good day. I will speak to you soon.
Love,
Roman
Leaving the note on her bedside cabinet, I kiss her softly on the forehead, then grab my keys and make my way to my car. ‘Take Me to Church by Hozier’ plays through the speakers as I sit and wait for the engine to warm up for a couple of minutes before reversing off the driveway.
The journey to my family home is not long.
Many of the founders’ families have estates here.
I wouldn’t say I grew up in this house, but it was a staple of my childhood.
My mum and I spent most of our time in the London property whilst Dad went back and forth between the two depending on business.
It made sense for Mum to keep me in London as she refused to send me to boarding school. Every holiday was spent here, though.
Whilst swimming pools are not as common in England as they are in other countries, it is misinformation that we do not have them. My house, for example, has two. One indoor that we use all year round and one outdoor that we use in the summer.
It is a modern property on land that is anything but. When Dad inherited it, he tore down the old structure and started again. It was before my time, so I never saw what stood here before. My grandmother died giving birth to my dad, and my grandfather died at sixty, five months before I was born.
The new property has never felt excessive to me.
It is just… solid. Calm in the way things are when they have always been this way.
Pale white stone walls, tall windows that catch the light, everything is balanced and intentional.
Even now, the place sits neatly against the well-manicured grass.
The gravel drive curves like a roundabout, a fountain at its centre, trees and flowers lining the edges.
Parking, I step out and take a deep breath.
Childhood memories flicker past my mind’s eye.
Summer mornings with the doors thrown open, light spilling across the polished marble floors, my mum’s voice carrying from the kitchen to the den as my dad’s laughter followed her.
Nothing was hidden in this home. It was just… peaceful.
I climb the steps and try the lock, mentally chastising them for leaving it open.
Again. Stepping inside, the space opens around me in a way that feels instinctively right.
The entrance hall is wide and bright, marble floors laid in careful patterns that catch the light as it pours through the tall windows.
Twin staircases curve upward on either side, their ironwork delicate rather than imposing.
The chandelier at the centre is crystal, casting a soft glow that feels more welcoming than grand.
I can hear music drifting in from the kitchen; Mum’s voice echoes through the rooms as she sings along to ‘Aretha Franklin’s I Say a Little Prayer.
’ I smile to myself, making a detour to see her.
The house always sounds alive when she is awake.
The clink of cups, a tune carried through open doorways, her heels echoing through each room like my own personal orchestra.
I move further inside without hesitation, passing the seating arranged neatly at the centre of the hall and stop at the kitchen doorway.
I watch her as she dances across the space, always baking something.
Mum spots me just as she slides a tray into the oven and jumps, her hand flying to her chest before she breaks into a laugh.
“Jesus, Roman!” she scolds lightly as she picks up her phone and turns the music down. “You’ll be the death of me one day.”
“Augh, Mum, I hate when you say that,” I say, walking into the kitchen to give her a hug.
“I know, my sweet literal boy,” she coos as she goes up on her tiptoes to embrace me.
I meet her halfway, bending my much taller frame to meet hers without hesitation, like I am still a twelve-year-old boy and not a fully grown man.
She smells like clean linen and cinnamon.
Mum pulls away first, her hands moving the way they always do as she gently smooths my shirt and kisses me on the cheek.
My chest twinges, something that keeps happening lately when I take in her features.
People without HSAM will never understand the curse of it.
Every day I have seen her, I can picture her clearly in my mind’s eye.
It means every wrinkle, sunspot, and extra grey hair is more obvious to me than it would be to anyone else.
The reality that I am faced with my mum’s mortality every time I see her is a hard pill to swallow.
My mother has never chased youth. She wears her years the way she wears everything else, with quiet confidence and no apology.
The fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepen when she smiles and the skin at her neck shows the soft marks of time.
Her skin is rich and warm, a deep bronze that holds the light instead of reflecting it.
Her brown eyes are soft and warm which is nothing like my hardened gaze, and her hair is kept in short, tight coils close to her head.
Grace lives in her posture, in the way she moves, in the way she behaves. She is beautiful, not because she is untouched by time, but because she has made peace with it. Standing in front of her, I realise I have always known what strength looks like, because I learned it here, watching her.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she says, finally stepping back to look at me properly.
“Dad called,” I shrug, leaning against the countertop.
“Well, don’t keep him waiting. When you’re done, you can come back to collect some cinnamon buns. I’ll pack extra for the boys.”
I roll my eyes at the endearment. No matter that we are adults, living in our own home, being assassins and soon to be running businesses, somehow my mum still thinks and treats us like children.
The guys love it though. All of them have complicated relationships with their parents; I think I am the only one who had a normal upbringing, so to them having a mum that cares is more precious than gold.
At this point she has informally adopted them, which adds complications when I ultimately snap and stab one of them.
It’s bad enough I have to think about Fae’s feelings, let alone my mum’s.
Walking through the house, I knock once on my dad’s office door and enter.
“You’re late,” he announces without any heat, carrying on typing on his keyboard.
“Blame your wife, she commandeered me,” I retort as I take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. His lips twitch as he finally looks up from his computer.
“Sounds about right,” he chuckles, leaning back in his chair.