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No Roman.

No giant, brooding hitman.

No phenomenal forearms.

Nothing.

I sit up. “Ouch.”

Okay. Apparently Roman left me two things: a sore vagina and abandonment issues.

I glare at the side of the bed he was lying on. “Rude. Incredibly rude.”

I throw my legs over the side of the bed. My crotch protests the movement.

My eyes go to the rug where he dropped his clothing.

His boots are gone.

His bloody clothes have disappeared.

I exhale, trying to regain control of my spiraling mind.

There could be a rational explanation.

I head into my en-suite bathroom.

No Roman.

Just a rat’s nest of curls reminding me of Medusa when I look in the mirror.

Gross.

I’ll wash it later.

I exit into the hallway.

Nope. No Roman.

I check every room, even the guest bathroom, because the six-foot-four hitman might have decided to take a shit instead of saying goodbye.

Empty.

I head downstairs, wandering through every room until I stop by the front door.

It’s locked.

The keypad automatically locks when the door closes, so I can’t even give him credit for that.

Asshole.

On autopilot, my feet carry me to the kitchen, and I start making coffee.

Maybe he panicked.

It’s understandable.

Last night was intense.