Page 67 of The Promise

Or ... Karine knew she shouldn’t.

So, she let him go.

Roman stood at the foot of the bed as he dressed himself. Those thirty minutes were up, and Karine could feel the tears coming.

No. She wouldn’t do that to him. Not now when he had to leave. She didn’t want the sight of tears streaming down her face to be the last thing he saw before he walked out of that bedroom, so she stifled the hitching in her throat and the sting in her eyes.

Just a little bit longer.

When he was gone, she would cry.

Only then.

“I’ll see you soon, right?” she asked, sinking back into his sheets.

His bed.

It smelled like him, and now her. Them. She had no intention of leaving his room anytime soon. Or ever. Fuck anyone who tried to make her do anything different.

“You know it,” he told her.

So sure.

He’d finished dressing fast, and before he carried his bag to the door, he came around the bed to her side again. She didn’t really need to ask the question echoing in the back of her mind, because she knew what his answer would be, but it still felt right ... so, Karine asked, “You promise?”

He took her fingers, pressing the tips to his mouth, the kiss featherlight. “I do.”

“Be safe, Roman.”

This man.

He winked.

All sinful, and gorgeous.

And now, very possibly, hers.

“Be good,” he told her.

Well.

Karine would try, but ...

“No promises.”

FIFTEEN

One week crawled into two, and Roman felt every fucking second of those days tick by. From the moment he left Vermont, he became painfully aware of the time passing, because for once in his life, he was doing everything but what he wanted to do.

It took so little effort to be selfish.

And so much not to be.

In the back seat of his friend’s newest car, Roman killed time watching the streets of a familiar city as Marky navigated the road. They were trying to kill time. Marky had a habit of changing vehicles far too often for Roman to keep track of which one the guy was driving on any given week; his access to fleets of stolen vehicles did not go unused. Which, in a way, helped them with their current situation considering he had to stay on the move. Roman was doing his best to avoid a run-in with the FBI like Demyan had experienced.

At least, his father had managed to keep the bastards off his shoulders so far, but Roman wasn’t sure how much longer that would last. His constant paranoia about bumping into the FBI was only aided by the fact he was still waiting for someone from Chicago to turn up out of the blue, too.

A proverbial target had been placed on his back in more ways than one—a dangerous way to feel for a man like him. Repeatedly checking over his shoulder, eyes darting everywhere when he entered any public space, the never-ending movement because a still target was far too easy to hit.