Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
LILITH
After Roman left a few days ago, I lit a bundle of dried sage, watching the tendrils of smoke curl upward from its smoldering tip.
The earthy, herbaceous scent filled the room as I waved it in slow, deliberate circles over the cushion where he'd been sitting, his energy still lingering like a shadow.
With eyes closed, I whispered my prayer to Brigid—my copper-haired Celtic goddess with eyes like emerald fire, who cradles a flame in one hand and a sword in the other.
I could almost feel her presence as I asked her to mend the jagged pieces of Roman's heart, those fragments I'd glimpsed behind his steel gaze when he thought no one was looking.
Now, two days later, I’m still immersed in healing rituals for Roman as often as I can. Whenever I get a few minutes to myself at the store, I’m meditating, praying to my goddess and fingering my crystals.
Jack leans against my doorframe, arms crossed.
"A healing ritual, Lil, huh?" The corner of his mouth twitches.
Despite being my best friend and fiercest defender for years, he still raises an eyebrow at my crystals and candles.
I arrange my rose quartz and Rhodonite in a circle, their pink surfaces catching the afternoon light.
"Roman doesn't trust me," I whisper, more to myself than Jack. "That's the real wound." My fingers trace the smooth stone. "But I still love the stubborn fool enough to try healing him from afar."
The singing bowl recording fills my store with resonant tones as I close my eyes, picturing Roman's heart mending under Brigid's care.
"Don't hover," I say without looking up. "I need complete focus for this. I'll find you when I'm done."
“Okay,” he says and then leaves.
A half-hour later, I emerge from the back room, my hands still trembling from Roman's energy.
I have more readings scheduled for today - just normal people, no royalty or billionaires come to this store of course - but all I can think about is escaping to my bathtub later and submerging myself until the day dissolves like bath salts.
Candles, a bubble bath and a good novel sound like heaven right now.
"Lass!" Blake's voice cuts through the shop as he bursts through the door.
"Blake!" My face ignites with relief. God, I need his light right now. Roman's darkness still clings to me like smoke, suffocating my spirit, while Blake radiates pure sunshine. "What brings you back?"
"Desperate for another reading." His eyes flash with urgency. "I'm turning into one of those psychic junkies. My manager's breathing down my neck about the tour—wants me back on stage by December. But Christ, I'm burned out. Need to know if taking a real break will kill my career."
I can't help but smile at this man—platinum records lining his walls, stadiums screaming his name—still riddled with doubt. "The world won't forget Blake Walsh any more than they'd forget Taylor Swift or Ed Sheeran. But come on back."
The cards reveal that he should indeed take a break and if he does, he’ll come back better than ever and his fans will anticipate his return and not forget him.
As we return to the shop floor, Blake wraps me in his signature bear hug and plants a kiss on my cheek. That's when the door explodes open.
"YOU!" Roman roars, a feral sound that freezes my blood.
His body becomes a weapon—a blur of calculated fury as his foot connects with Blake's jaw with a sickening crack.
Blake crumples to the floor like a marionette with cut strings.
Roman towers over him, chest heaving, veins throbbing at his temples, eyes wild with primal rage.
I stand paralyzed. My scream dies in my throat as reality fractures around me.
This isn't happening. This can't be happening.
What kind of monster lurks beneath that Armani suit?
The initial shock fades when I see Blake sprawled across the floor tiles. He staggers to his feet—relief floods through me—and massages his jaw before giving his head a little shake. "Seems we've got a pattern forming here, lad," he quips as I steady him.
Jack remains frozen behind the register.
I glance around, grateful the store is empty of customers.
No witnesses means no smartphone footage of Roman Kensington demolishing someone in a bookstore.
His reputation for having a temper is one thing, but actual evidence of him channeling his inner MMA fighter would send his investors running.
The billionaire hotelier who punches first and negotiates later isn't exactly the financial partner most people are looking for.
I rush to Blake's side. "Are you hurt?" Jack tries to get between Blake and Roman but he’s like a sparrow trying to fend off a hawk. His slender frame barely covers half of Roman's muscled silhouette.
Blake works his jaw back and forth. "My poor face. Thirty years of pristine condition, ruined in seconds. How bad is it?"
I probe his jawline with gentle fingers.
The skin's already warming, but nothing shifts under my touch.
"You'll live. Just expect some colorful bruising.
" I glance at Roman, whose controlled stance reminds me he could have done much worse.
Those MMA sessions with Caspian taught him precision—even in rage, he holds back just enough to avoid hospital visits.
I jab a finger toward Jack. "Go down the boardwalk to the ice machine." Then I whirl on Roman, my voice rising to a pitch that makes the crystal pendants near the register tremble. "And you! Get out before I call the police!"
Roman blinks rapidly, the veins in his neck no longer bulging. His shoulders drop as he looks from Blake's crumpled form to me. "Lil," he whispers, "I'm so—"
"Out!"
Jack bursts through the door, ice cubes rattling in a plastic bag.
I kneel beside Blake, whose jaw is already purpling.
"My silk scarf, Jack. The indigo one." I keep my eyes locked on Roman, who hovers by the bookshelf, fingers twitching at his sides.
When Jack hands me the scarf, I wrap the ice carefully, pressing it against Blake's swelling jaw.
"I'm so sorry. Please don't tell anyone about this. "
Blake winces as he touches his face. "I guess we're even.
I made quite the scene at his resort." His eyes meet Roman's across the room.
"No, Lil, like Vegas, whatever happened here stays here.
We've all been there—rage so blind you can't see.
" He rises unsteadily, crosses to Roman and places a hand on his shoulder.
"I'll pray for you, brother." Then to me: "Lil, I'll see you. "
I lunge for the door and wrap my arms around Blake, clinging to him like a life raft.
"I'm so sorry about this," I repeat fiercely against his ear.
The moment he steps away, I feel it—the suffocating darkness Roman has brought crashing into my sanctuary.
The crystals on the shelves seem to dim, the incense smoke curls away from him like it's afraid.
Jack's aura, usually a brilliant sapphire, has faded to a trembling, anxious gray.
And Roman—God—he's a black hole standing among my books, his rage still pulsing like a heartbeat, threatening to devour everything I've built here.
I feel my own light being violently ripped from my chest, my energy draining into his bottomless fury until my knees nearly buckle.
"I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" I gasp to Blake, already feeling myself drowning.
Blake nods and disappears into the evening crowd.
The door clicks shut. My shoulders slump. Three tarot readings to get through tonight, and then—my bubble bath, candles, meditation chants, and novel.
I've never needed them more.
Then, my vision blurs at the edges, turning crimson as rage floods my system. Roman's toxic energy has been suffocating me since he walked in, yet he's still planted by the register like some entitled god, oblivious to the hurricane building inside me.
"Jack," I snarl. "Door. NOW."
Jack scrambles to comply while I lunge at Roman. Something primal takes over—my hands slam against Roman’s chest with such force that his six-foot-four frame actually staggers. "GET OUT AND TAKE YOUR DARK ENERGY WITH YOU!”
The scream tears from my throat, raw and feral.
His eyes widen in shock as I keep coming, fingers curled like claws, shoving him again and again.
Each impact sends jolts up my arms but I don't stop, driving him backward until he's teetering at the threshold.
With one final violent thrust, I expel his massive body onto the boardwalk like exorcising a demon.
The door slams shut with a satisfying crash, lock clicking into place as I slap the "Closed" sign against the glass, my hands trembling with adrenaline.
I cancel every reading with shaking fingers. That bubble bath can't come soon enough—I need to wash him off my skin.