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When the photographer has taken photos of us alone and with Roman’s brother and cousin, Roman insists that I eat all the food on my plate. I do as he says, tasting nothing.
After another glass of water, he takes my arm. “Come.”
The order hangs ominously in the air.
Mateo and Andrew stare after us as Roman guides me to the stairs.
It’s happening.
Clasping my hand in his, Roman leads me to his bedroom.
It strikes me then that I don’t know what day it is. I lost track of the date. I haven’t even been here for long. Not long enough. But my thoughts are scattered.
When he stops in front of his door, I ask. “What day is it?”
He gives me a long look. “Monday.”
“Okay.”
I needed to know that. I’m not sure why. Maybe because we have an inborn need to know on which day we’re going to die.
Opening the door, he ushers me inside. I step over the threshold, plunging into my fate. The first step is always the most difficult. The turn of the key in the lock draws my attention. He’s not locking us in for privacy. He’s making sure I can’t escape. The deduction is confirmed when he pulls out the key and slips it into his pocket.
He doesn’t speak as he approaches me. I’m glad. I don’t want untruths in this moment. There’s enough deceit between us as it is. I want to postpone talking for as long as possible.
Cupping my cheek, he brushes a thumb under my eye. His palm is broad and warm. Needing comfort like never before, I press my face against his hand. He smiles, offering me more comfort by slipping one arm around my waist and dragging me closer for a hug. Closing my eyes, I let him carry my weight. It feels good.
“I’ll make it good for you,” he says, stealing the word from my mind. “Just relax. Leave the rest up to me.”
I’m only twenty-five, but I’m so tired. I’m too tired to lie about not being tired. I’m tired of working so hard to believe my lies. For once, I just want to be. Just this once, I don’t want to observe the world from the window of a car. I don’t want to be someone else when I walk through the door. I don’t want to slip out the back and fade into the dark.
Just this once.
No more hiding.
No more living in the shadows.
“Evie,” he says, pulling away to look at me.
I look at him, too. His gaze isn’t shuttered. He’s wide open, letting me see. The pools of his eyes are kaleidoscopes of emotion. Lust. Desire. Victory. He has the most expressive eyes. They’re clear and bright like the eyes of someone who never loses sleep. He lets me in, draws me deeper through those mesmerizing pools into his soul, and makes it impossible to pretend. With him, I can’t be someone else. I can’t be anyone other than me.
I don’t want to be.
“I want you to listen to me,” he says, his expression serious. “The shot the doctor gave you reversed your contraceptive. The treatment is still in a testing phase, but some women have already experienced positive results.”
“You lied to me.” It’s an observation, not an accusation. I can’t throw stones when I live in a glass house.
Splaying his hand over my lower back, he brushes his thumb over my spine. “I didn’t want you to stress about it before it was necessary.”
“You want to have a baby.”
“Yes,” he says in a soft voice.
The reason for the tests the doctor ran becomes clear. It wasn’t only to determine if I was clean. Roman also wanted to be sure I’m not pregnant. If I fall pregnant, he wants to know without a doubt that the baby is his.
My mind speeds to the past, to the day Bell shot Geoff, Evie’s guard, because Geoff held my hand. It wasn’t sexual. He was just helping me out of the car.
“Having a child is non-negotiable for me,” Roman says, pulling me back to him, to the present. “You won’t have to lift a finger when the baby is born. I’ll employ a good nanny. Our children will have the best tutors. The best education. They’ll never need for anything.”
What will it be like to grow up in this house? Will it be happy and carefree? I won’t let any child into a world I don’t know.
He skims his fingers up my spine. “If you’re not objecting, I’ll take your silence as your agreement.”
I don’t reply. In a short while, it won’t matter.
He removes the veil first. Gripping the zipper of the dress, he pulls it down. He does so slowly, brushing his fingertips over my back to the crease of my buttocks as he parts the edges of the dress.
I should tell him now, but he’s loosening the noose of his tie, hypnotizing me with the fluid motion in which he removes it. My gaze fixes on his nimble fingers as he unbuttons his jacket and shrugs it off before throwing it on the chair. His waistcoat follows. When he unbuttons his shirt, I follow that action, too. After undoing the cuffs, he sweeps the fabric away, baring his strong chest and flat abdomen.
