Page 88 of The Marriage

Somehow.

She’d trusted him.

And where had that got her?

SEVENTEEN

Twenty-four hours.

Roman counted each of them.

Again and again.

Over and over.

He kept counting them. What else could he do?

Twenty-four hours of not knowing where Karine was, or how she was. Who she was with, even. And in that time, Roman had been able to do nothing other than pace around the house, waiting for something to happen.

As much as his father wanted to believe that Maxim wouldn’t hurt his only living child, it was impossible for Roman to erase the memories of how he saw Karine being treated in the Yazov mansion.

Maxim had been dismissive and uninterested. Karine’s very life and secrets were proof he had been neglectful and selfish, at least. Roman found it hard to believe that the man changed without an underlying motive, and he didn’t want Karine to be her father’s collateral.

Demyan didn’t say it directly, but it was obvious he considered Roman a flight risk. The unspoken concern might have been encouraged by Claire who was in a constant state of paranoia that Roman was going to make a run for it.

And she wasn’t off the mark.

So, not only was Roman back to being not allowed to return to his own loft, but he was also being constantly watched by the bulls again.

His every move was being reported back to the boss.

Roman itched.

Just to go.

It would be easy—yeah, it’d make a scene. But he’d made messes before. His father cleaned up more than once for his son. He was trying to do better, though. Roman wanted to be better for his parents, and Karine, too.

But barely.

He made phone calls to every contact that was relevant.

One of the many reasons Roman had picked that facility for Karine’s treatment was because he didn’t have a strong connection in Nevada to anyone or anything. He knew neither the Yazovs nor the Avdonins had much power or control out there, so she would be safe outside their territories where contacts were limited.

That backfired.

Roman didn’t have many people to draw on as he raced to catch up with whatever footsteps Maxim and Karine might have left behind.

A lot of good it did.

He was in the same place where he started—right in the middle of fucking nowhere.

His guys at the loft were watching over Masha, and she still hadn’t talk, sticking to her claim that she knew nothing. Maxim hadn’t divulged that information.

Roman had come terribly close to ordering her death. The call would have been easy, and the minutes it might have taken before he got the confirmation could have been sweet, but he didn’t.

His remaining conscience stopped him but still, the rage inside him festered. Poisonous as it ate away at his dying heart. It wasn’t even the anger killing him—it was the unknown sucker punch to the fucking chest with every passing second that his wife wasn’t beside him doing the job.

Fair was fair.