Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
LILITH
My friends from the psychic fair spread their colorful cushions across the living room floor, folding their legs into lotus positions around me.
Sage, Luna, Aurora, Hazel and Indigo—it's been months since we've gathered like this.
Between running Mystic Tides, helping at the resort, and spending time with Roman, I've barely had a moment.
Incense burns in the corner while our tea cools, and someone's put on Enya in the background.
We spill into my living room where Jack stands at the bar cart, stirring drinks.
He's already made virgin margaritas for the girls who drove here, and one for me too—I'm more of a occasional-glass-of-wine person anyway.
Something about tequila feels too much like an escape hatch, and I've never needed one of those.
"Well?" Jack asks, dipping his pinky into his own very-much-not-virgin margarita. He winces. "Needs more agave."
Aurora beams at him, her face still flushed from meditation. "Divine. There's nothing like riding that collective energy wave. These women are magical."
Jack squints. "Remind me what TM stands for again?"
“Transcendental meditation is just sitting quietly for twenty minutes, twice a day, repeating a personal mantra in your mind while letting thoughts drift by without judgment—no complicated poses or breathing required.
It's like mental flossing that helps clear out stress,” Indigo explains.
“It could be any mantra, something that means something to you at that moment, for instance.”
“Like Lilith might chant something like ‘tall, dark, handsome and complicated’ over and over again?” Jack asks, teasing me.
I laugh. “Yes, that definitely describes Roman.”
“Oh, Roman?” Hazel asks. “Do tell.”
I don't know what to say. Roman consumes me like wildfire, burning through every defense I've ever built.
My heart hammers against my ribs at the mere thought of him.
What we have feels almost dangerous in its intensity—like staring directly at the sun.
"He's..." My voice catches. I swallow hard, trying to contain the trembling in my hands.
"He's unlike anyone I've ever known," I finally whisper, the inadequacy of these words crushing me. “He’s a very special guy.”
“A very special guy who was here tonight,” Jack says with a grin.
My heart beats out of my chest. “Here tonight? What happened to him?”
Jack shrugs. “Said he had something to do. Said he was tired or something.”
Just then, my phone buzzes. Roman’s text.
Lilith. I can't do this. I'm texting because I'd shatter if I heard your voice.
I'm drowning in my own darkness and I refuse to pull you under with me.
You deserve better than the fucking chaos I bring.
We'll cross paths at the resort, but that's it.
Don't try to fix this. Don't try to fix me. I'm sorry.
And that was it. He didn’t even sign his name.
Indigo's gaze locks with mine, her pupils dilating slightly.
Among my spiritual sisters, she's always had the strongest connection to the other side.
"I sense something about Roman," she murmurs, her voice dropping an octave.
"There's a shadow following him tonight.
A deep, dark shadow." She extends her palm.
"I need something with his energy on it. "
I slip into my bedroom and return with the crystal he gave me for the gala and the sea glass he picked up from the beach on the first night we made love.
When Indigo's fingers close around them, her body goes rigid, shoulders tensing.
"He's drowning in darkness tonight, Lilith. Absolutely drowning."
Oh. I need to get to him, then. His text notwithstanding, if he's in trouble, I need to be there. In the kitchen, Jack's laughter mingles with the clink of wine glasses as Luna arranges cucumber slices around the edge of the hummus bowl. The scent of warm pita fills the apartment.
I glance at my phone again, then back at my friends who've barely settled in for our catch-up. My stomach knots. They'll understand, won't they? I grab my keys from the hook. I have to get to Roman.
But where does he live? I have no idea. Never been there before. So I text Max, ask him for Roman’s address, which he readily gives to me. He says he’s concerned about his brother, too.
Roman met with Dad earlier. Coffee shop meetup ended with him bolting out the door.
I've blown up his phone for hours—nothing.
Classic Roman shutdown mode. To get into his apartment, he needs to meet me in the lobby and escort me or give me special permission and when he's in one of these moods, nobody's getting through.
The doorman at his Four Seasons building just shrugged when I showed up.
Can't help worrying about what's going on in his head right now.I keep picturing him up there alone, probably putting his fist through something expensive. Can' t shake this knot in my stomach.
I flash an apologetic smile at the women gathered around my tarot table.
"I hate to cut this short, but Jack can finish your readings.
" My pulse hammers against my throat as I gather my cards with trembling fingers.
Somewhere across town, Roman might be smashing glassware against walls or emptying a bottle of whiskey.
The vision of either scenario sends me straight to my car, my hands shaking on the wheel.
I get to Roman's apartment building, The Four Seasons private residences, and my jaw drops.
The gleaming glass tower pierces the sky like a diamond-tipped spear, doormen in crisp uniforms standing sentinel beneath a massive portico.
Fountains dance in synchronized patterns across the marble courtyard.
Holy shit, this isn't just luxury—this is wealth so excessive it feels like stepping onto another planet.
I approach the doorman, his white gloves pristine against the navy uniform, his posture military-straight beneath the gleaming brass buttons of his jacket.
"May I help you?" His voice is clipped, professional, with just a hint of judgment as he takes in my home-sewn wrinkled sundress and windblown hair.
God, do I feel out of my depth. The marble lobby stretches behind him like an ocean I could drown in. "Roman Kensington. He lives in the penthouse suite. I need to see him." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"Do you have special permission to see him?" One eyebrow arches slightly.
"I don't." I clutch my purse strap tighter, feeling the leather bite into my palm.
He nods, lips pressed into a thin line. "Mr. Kensington is our most treasured guest." Then he sees something in my eyes—raw desperation, probably—and his expression softens. He nods again. "I'll contact him and see if he can meet you here."
I practically bounce on my toes. "Thank you!" My arms twitch with the urge to hug him, but I keep them at my sides. People at the farmers market always joke that I'd hug a cactus if it looked lonely enough, but I won’t hug him, even though I’m dying to.
My stomach knots as I follow him. Max couldn't even get Roman to see him—his own brother. What chance do I have? Some hippie girl from Venice Beach who drove forty minutes up the coast on nothing but a hope and a prayer. But I had to try.
To my relief, he comes right back. "Mr. Kensington will be down shortly.”
The urge to embrace him overwhelms me again, and before I can stop myself, my arms are around his broad shoulders, my eyes stinging with the threat of tears. "Thank you," I whisper.
His smile tightens at the edges as he stands there, wooden and uncertain.
I've made him uncomfortable. I should probably regret my impulsiveness, but I can't bring myself to.
In my world, unexpected hugs are like those little kindnesses strangers sometimes offer—small but necessary gifts.
Everyone craves that connection, that momentary shelter of another person's arms. At least, I think they do.
It seems like forever, but Roman soon appears in the lobby. He nods at the doorman. “Thanks, Henry,” he says. “I’ll take it from here.”
We rocket upward in the elevator to the twelfth floor.
The doors slide open directly into his penthouse, and I gasp.
Moonlight pours through floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing a view that steals my breath.
The Los Angeles skyline stretches before me, countless lights twinkling against the night.
Marble floors lead past a floating staircase to multiple living areas I can barely take in at once.
Through another glass wall, I glimpse a rooftop garden and infinity pool that seems to spill right into the city below.
From here, you can see everything—downtown's skyscrapers to the east, the Hollywood Hills dotted with homes to the north, and to the west, past the grid of streets, the dark expanse of the Pacific, where distant ships' lights blink like stars fallen to earth.
I stand frozen in the doorway, my lips forming a stunned "Oh my god.
" The glossy pages of Architectural Digest hadn't prepared me for this reality—twenty-foot ceilings with exposed beams, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Pacific, furniture that probably costs more than my entire shop inventory.
This isn't just wealth; this is obscene, beautiful wealth.
I run my fingertips along a marble countertop that stretches longer than my apartment.
Is this really the home of the man whose beautiful body I've memorized these past weeks?
The man who texts me at 2 AM not for booty calls but because he's thinking about something I said?
Whatever we are—lovers, dating, something undefined—I know one thing: my heart has already claimed him, and I'm not backing down now, no matter how intimidating his world might be.