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My heart kicked. My spine straightened. “Upstairs?” I hated the hesitation in my voice, ashamed of the fear.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes. You need a bath, a bed and a hot meal.” He turned to walk up the stairs. “Then maybe you’ll be ready to talk.”
Talk.
He wanted to talk.
“Wait.”
He stopped walking but kept his back toward me. His shoulders lifted, then fell with an agitated sigh. “I promise you that up there—” He pointed where the light shone down the stairs through the open door. “Is a hell of a lot more comfortable than down here. Trust me.”
“You’re asking me to trust you. You want to talk. You expect me to tell you things, intimate things, and you haven’t even told me your name. You owe me that, at least.”
His voice dropped to a deep whisper. “You showed up atmygate uninvited. You are a stranger inmycommunity. I didn’t bring you here.Youfoundme. I don’t owe you shit.”
He scraped a hand over his face as if wiping the moment away. As if he were fighting his own battle between right and wrong.
His body was stiff. His stare was solemn as he spoke again, “However, for the sake of hospitality, my name is Roman.”
* * *
Roman was right. Upstairs was a lot better than the basement.
I followed him into a kitchen with stark white cabinets and floors. There was a small round table on one side, in front of a large window framed in dark blue curtains. The kitchen opened into a living room with another large window framed with the same blue curtains. There were two beige sofas facing each other, a colorful rug in the middle, a fireplace with a wood beam mantle and framed quotes on the wall.
Love them anyway.
Created with purpose.
Everything about it felt warm and inviting, such a contrast to the man who lived here.
My eyes stopped on the front door.
His gaze followed mine. “You’re not a prisoner here. You’re free to walk out that door as soon as I’m confident that no one has followed you.”
I scoffed. “If that’s all you’re worried about, then there’s no need to bother with a bath and a meal. I can ease your mind right now.” I met his stare. “No one’s coming.”
“How do you know?”
Because anyone who might care enough to try to find me is probably dead.
The camp we stayed in didn’t get crippled by loss. People left and never came back. That was the world we lived in. When it happened, we’d light a fire, say a kind word of remembrance, then appoint another family to take their place on the next outing.
My parents were the only empathetic people I knew. They were flowers in the cracks of a sidewalk. They were the rays of sunshine that sometimes broke through the rain. They were light in a world of darkness. Now, they were gone.
“I just know.”
Roman stood by one of the sofas. His fingers clenched the back cushion as he tightened his fist. His gaze narrowed, a spear piercing the air between us.
I swallowed. “You think I’m lying.”
“I think there are things you aren’t telling me.”
My world had been shattered. My heart was ripped to shreds. My mother sacrificed herself to save me. And I’d let her. Guilt clawed at my mind like nails on a chalkboard. I wasn’t about to re-live all of that in order to satisfy some stranger’s curiosity, no matter how drawn to him I felt.
I rushed from my side of the room to his, ignoring the aches in my legs and cuts on my feet. Our gazes locked and I felt it crash over me—the hum of his body that seemed to summon mine without a word.
I sucked in a breath. Blew it back out without blinking. My hands shook but I held my ground. “You wanted to know my name. I told you my name. You wanted to know if anyone would come looking for me. I told you they won’t. I showed up at your gate, unarmed and half-conscious, and you threw me in a basement, then strapped me to a chair. Considering the amount of stress it caused you to simply tell me your name, I have a feeling there are plenty of thingsyoudon’t wantmeto know.”
