Page 23 of The Promise

Fair enough.

Roman raked a hand through his hair, then grabbed the bottle right off the bar altogether. Even a stiff drink wasn’t going to cut it this time. He might as well take the whole damn bottle at this point.

“The girl I just saw back there,” Demyan said, his gaze darting to the hallway that he had a decent view of from his position, “... she’s fragile. Cotton candy, Roman. Just the hint of contact is all that’s needed, and she’ll disintegrate into nothing. Yet, she’ll cling to you like a life raft.”

Yeah.

He didn’t need the reminder.

Roman drank straight from the bottle, gulp after gulp of vodka that burned, until he felt the warmth spreading in the pit of his stomach. Demyan didn’t even tell him to chill—the biggest surprise of all. When he looked at his father again, after dropping the bottle back to the bar, he shook his head.

“You’re right, she’s fragile,” Roman agreed, his tongue swiping nervously across his bottom lip. A tell he couldn’t bother to hide from his father. “She needs help. Like real fucking help. A medical professional, kind of help, Papa.”

Demyan’s face twisted—the very mention of a shrink never went down well in their world. He didn’t say a thing one way or another about the topic, instead replying to his son, “It doesn’t sound like you have any intention of explaining yourself or the girl to me.”

“What’s to explain, or haven’t you seen enough?”

Demyan stared hard at him.

Roman waved one hand, tired. He was over it. “Like I said before, it’s not like I have all of the answers to make everything make sense, either. I was dropped into this situation—I’m trying to figure it out as we go along.”

“We?”

“Me and her. Right now, I’m basically what she’s got. Fucking great, huh?”

Because she needed more.

Even he knew it.

Demyan’s jaw tightened at that statement. “And you want to stick to your previous answer, then? Saying what you just did, you feel nothing for her?”

Steely eyes studied Roman, and while it made him uncomfortable, he let his father do it. He didn’t have an answer, and when he didn’t reply, Demyan shook his head.

“Unbelievable. This is a strange hill you’ve decided to die on, let me say.”

Displeased, Demyan let out a harsh exhale before downing the rest of the vodka in his glass. He’d always wanted what was best for Roman, even if that meant letting him destroy his life with choices of his own making. They were his to make, or so his father liked to say. In the past, they’d clashed as Demyan learned the more he tried to fix and control Roman, the worse his behavior became. There were times he sincerely believed his father just wanted to be rid of him. Then, he became older—maybe wiser—and had an opportunity to observe his father from the lens of a grown man.

Albeit, still a troubled one.

That didn’t change the truth.

Nothing was more important to Demyan Avdonin than his family.

Roman took another swig of the vodka.

“A very strange fucking hill,” Demyan added in a dark mutter.

Well ...

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Roman replied.

“I plan to say more.”

He nodded.

“I figured that, too.”

Expected nothing less, really.