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I’m already gone.
My fists collide with his face. Again and again and again.
It’s not until he whimpers, the sound so small, so broken, that I freeze. Blinking rapidly, I take in his bruised cheek and bloody nose. The fear in his eyes.
Fear because of me.
I’ll never be like him.
I swore I wouldn’t. I can’t. No matter how angry I am.
With a growl, I shove off the guy’s body and snatch the backpack. A snarl rips from my throat, but he’s already stumbling to his feet. His good eye, the one not swollen shut, silently begs me to leave him alone.
I stare after him for a long moment, watching him hobble away. My shoulders slump as I let out a long breath and turn my attention the opposite way.
Finding shelter from the rain in a covered alley, I lean against an old brick wall and slide down it, exhaustion replacing everything I’d just been feeling. The bag lands between my bent knees and I quickly unzip it.
I just have to see.
My fingers wrap around the hard surface, a tattered plastic bag keeping it safe. I swallow again, my mouth dry as I unwrap it. My fingers slide over the busted spine and my eyes burn. I wish I had tape, but you can’t have silly things like tape without a home. Tape is a privilege.
But this book…it’s an extension of me.
And it’s safe.
“I’ve never seen a book worth fighting for,” a heavily accented voice grumbles—Russian, I think. My eyes lift to him, watching as he brings a cigarette to his lips and takes a deep inhale, the tattoos around his throat bobbing with his swallow.
I look away and crack the book open, my thumb running over the familiar feminine scrawl along the margin. “This book is worth killing for.” But I don’t say the unspoken part of that declaration—the woman inside is worth dying for.
And out here, I just might.
“It’s not Dostoevsky’s story that made me keep it,” I murmur, taking in another note she left me all those years ago. It’s simple, irrelevant and unimportant, but to me, it’s everything. It kept me together when nothing else did.
“Why, then?” There’s that plea again, like she already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway. I look at her, letting her see the truth in my eyes. Letting her see me.
“It’s not his story written on these pages, Goldie,” I whisper, brushing her hair from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear. “It’s ours.”
Her eyes gloss over. “Ro,” she rasps.
I don’t know who moves first, but seconds later, we’re colliding together, her sunshine blending with my never ending darkness.
Her lips are so soft against mine, and I groan into her mouth, making her whimper. Heat rolls through my body at the sound and everything else outside this room disappears.
I shove the book to the side and wrap her in my arms, dragging her onto my lap. Eve gasps, her hands landing on my shoulders as her knees fall on either side of my legs.
She leans back and meets my gaze. Her throat bobs, nerves flitting across her face. Reaching up, I cup her cheeks, the gravity of the moment hitting me hard.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, meaning it with every bone in my body. Other words dance on my tongue, words I’ve said before, only to her, but now, they feel so different. They feel like more.
Before I can let them slip free, her hands leave my shoulders and she mirrors me, gripping my face. “So are you.”
My head shakes, but she drops a hand, letting it slide down to my chest. She presses it over my heart and dips her head, forcing me to meet her gaze.
“You are beautiful, Roman Payne.”
“Fuck,” I groan, fisting her stolen hoodie, and yank her to me. My mouth presses against hers and I devour my girl, letting her feel how much her words, her heart, her fucking soul mean to me.
She tears at the hem of my shirt frantically, and I chuckle into her mouth. Reaching back, I tug it over my head with one hand and toss it blindly over her shoulder before wrapping my fists around her top.
