Page 7 of The Promise

What’s it fucking matter—here you are.

Yeah.

Standing next to the large metallic slab at the other end of the room—the counter to his kitchen islands—he turned his gaze away from a sleeping Karine and that notebook. For a second. Long enough to clear his head and attempt to appreciate the fact he was home. He’d been very specific with his interior decorator when he knew the place would feature the marble and black brick. He wanted an industrial vibe where it could be fit in. Something to suit what he did for a living, to make him feel like he was back at the loft over the garage.

His first home that he kept—one that actually felt like his. In a way he couldn’t really explain. Call it nostalgia.

From his position leaning against the counter, he could still see Karine’s slender body gently rising and falling underneath the blanket in the corner of his eye. Even making himself stare elsewhere did nothing for what his mind seemed to want. He was struck by how innocent she seemed while she slept—how vulnerable and fragile she was to anyone who might want to do her harm.

As she slept, she reminded him of the Karine he first met. The lost, beautiful woman who carried a starry daze in her eyes and confusing words on the tip of her tongue. The one who had instigated their night together, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and courage. All at the same time.

Roman was only starting to realize that Karine was just one part of her—the one he initially felt an urge to protect, the one he wanted to keep safe from Dima. He didn’t think it was by accident that he came upon Karine as she was first, and not the versions of her that came out to play with people she must have known she couldn’t trust.

Not that he was in any way educated enough to understand what was happening in her mind—because he didn’t. Wouldn’t pretend to, either.

Yet, he wondered ...

Was there a connection there?

A reason?

He had to turn away from the sight of her altogether, knowing he needed to keep the part of him in check that seemed to grab hold of the idea that it was his responsibility now to do what she needed—anything she needed. If only because he liked it, and he wasn’t ready to deal with that.

Roman still had to figure out how he was going to fit Karine into his life—in New York with his family, and business. It wasn’t like he could just show back up here without some kind of an explanation about the chick that came along for the ride. The agreement with Maxim got her here, but he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do now, either. Not that he really had an option but to make it work.

That was the thing about choices.

Once made, it was done.

Besides, he wasn’t sure here was where Karine wanted to be, anyway. She was suspicious of him—didn’t trust his intentions. And why should she?

At most, he’d given her a good lay. At worst, he’d taken her away from a man that wouldn’t take kindly to a missing bride on his wedding day.

He bet she was so used to the illusion of a choice—or none at all—that Roman demanding she do as he told her, even leaving with him, was just another thing Karine did. What happened when she learned she could do things for herself—be her own voice?

Roman figured that was for Karine to work out—however she wanted and needed to. Grabbing a bottle from the bar, he headed back to his bedroom with quiet footsteps. He had to make a phone call, and quickly.

In the privacy of his room, Roman still didn’t feel like it was enough. He slipped between the sliding glass doors that led to a small veranda where two chairs sitting between a glass table faced outward. On the table, he sat down the bottle of vodka he’d grabbed from the bar.

It was the only thing that was going to help the pain that was beginning to spread everywhere. It didn’t matter what time of day it was; he didn’t need a fucking excuse to drink. He still had a pretty good one.

He dropped into one of the chairs and dialed his father’s phone while working the top off the vodka bottle. Nobody could say he wasn’t capable of multitasking when life got tough—right?

The last time he’d spoken with Demyan was a few days before the shit went down in Chicago, but that felt like a hot minute now. His father had no idea what had happened, or just how much had changed. The advice he’d given Roman to keep his head down, stay out of trouble, and to get the job done was entirely fucked at this point. He couldn’t have screwed that up any worse than he did.

“Roman,” came Demyan’s calm greeting the second his father picked up the phone.

If only he felt the same.

What was it like to be unaware—blissfully, so, even?

“We need to meet up,” Roman said.

His father’s answering silence said a lot, and even though he couldn’t see him, he was fully able to imagine Demyan’s furrowed brows. Or even the disappointment cloaking his father’s stare.

He had to give Demyan credit, though. He didn’t ask Roman to repeat himself, or even confirm that his words meant he was in the city—home.

In fact, all his father asked was, “Where?”