Page 22 of The Promise

The woman was a hurricane.

She didn’t need more chaos.

Roman hadn’t asked Karine what exactly was going on inside her head—he wasn’t sure he should, or if she would even tell him. Not yet. But he noticed every single one of her tics, like how she glanced to the side like she was hearing something there, though he chose not to point them out. But he’d seen the look of realization in her eyes, too.

When he said things she couldn’t deny—when she knew things he said to be true. Two and two together always made four, even if at first, it didn’t seem right.

He didn’t know where to start when it came to helping Karine, though. It was so fucking obvious he was in way over his head. Was he expected to be an expert on how to handle all of this?

Hell, he didn’t even know an expert to deal with this. But he sure as shit was going to try. Who else would do it for Karine?

That was the sad thing he had already realized. If not him, then she had no one.

He’d spent some time consoling Karine, only to get her back sitting on the bed where he found a cut on her heel had reopened to bleed through the fresh bandage. It was then that Masha heard the loud sobs, and returned to suggest that Karine might like to have a bath.

If he agreed, that was.

Masha’s words.

Not his.

Even though they weren’t in Chicago—or under the demanding, watchful eye of Maxim Yazov—it seemed that Masha had already placed herself on a lower rung of an imaginary hierarchy. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, to be honest, but there were bigger issues on his plate. In fact, he wasn’t even technically attached to Karine in any way that gave him control over her, but Masha was willing to treat him like he was.

Without question.

The burdens of his responsibilities were never more apparent to Roman. And he couldn’t say that he had been ready for it.

He took the opportunity to step away when Karine was led out of his bedroom by Masha. She kept glancing at him over her shoulder, and she wasn’t crying anymore, but she looked completely broken—one step at a time, he supposed. Roman nodded at her, and stayed where she could see him in the hallway until Masha directed her into the bathroom down the hall.

She still threw him one last, fleeting look that made his chest ache.

How was he supposed to do this?

How did she?

That was the better question.

By the time Roman finally was able to step back into the living room, he found his father by the bar, pouring a glass of vodka.

The broken glass on the floor had magically been cleaned away. Not a shattered shard in sight. Even the bloody tracks, droplets, and smears all over the marble floors had been cleaned, too. The bull was nowhere to be seen, either, and Masha had been busy with Roman and Karine.

The only person left who could have cleaned the mess was now sipping from a lowball glass of three-hundred-dollar a bottle vodka.

The very best Roman had.

Top shelf.

Demyan—his father.

He didn’t seem to want a thank you from his son, and didn’t appear to care if Roman mentioned it one way another as he approached. Hearing his steps, Demyan turned with a sigh and a quiet, “This deserved the good vodka, son. I hope you understand.”

Roman only shrugged.

What else could he do?

He had expected a lot of different reactions from his father after everything, but instead, Demyan remained calm. He eyed his son carefully, considering each one of Roman’s steps until he finally came to a stop in front of him.

“I don’t understand how you’ve found yourself in this position,” he began in a murmur around the rim of his glass.