Page 17 of Marked By Him

“You want to leave?” His shoulders bristled and he clutched the cushion tightly with one hand.I hit a nerve.“Go.” He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Silas will walk you to the gate.”

“Silas is the man who found me?” I was worn out, paralyzed with fear, consumed by grief, but I remembered glimpses of how I’d ended up at that gate. And I knew the man who had picked me up and carried me was not the same man I was staring at now. That man was older, gentler. This one was distant and cruel.

Roman shook his head. “No.” His voice was cold. Dark. “You don’t get to ask any more questions.”

Our breathing was rhythmic. Shallow and heavy. The air around us felt as though it were laced with an explosive. Any sudden move would set it off. Silence stretched between us but the tension; the tension screamed.

I’d told myself my secrets were off-limits. That was my hard line. Only as I stood there facing the thought of walking out that door, of surviving on my own, the secrets grew heavier.

My heart slammed against my ribs. My stomach knotted. Black thoughts—memories—gripped me like a vise. It hurt, physically ached.

Our gazes danced over each other’s faces, a collision of blue and brown that swirled into a vortex and threatened to drag us both under.

My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

And then finally, I spoke, “They’re dead.” I nearly choked on the words. My heart was strangled by the horror of saying them out loud.

He let go of the cushion and took a step forward. “What?”

I braced my shoulders and swallowed my emotions. “No one is coming… because they’re dead.”

8

Roman

Grief destroyed people.It changed them. It took some people a lifetime to find love. It only took a heartbeat to lose it.

One. Fucking. Heartbeat.

I saw grief in her eyes, heard a pain in her voice that onlythatkind of loss could bring. Her face was a contrast of shadows and sharp edges. She was strength and softness.She lost someone she loved.I didn’t need to ask how. Thehownever mattered. Only the loss did.

“How many?”

Her breath fluttered. “How many, what?”

“How many are dead?”

The question dangled like a worm on a hook. A stopwatch from a gold chain. Delicate. Quiet. Waiting.

“Two.”

“And yet you survived.”

Her mouth fell open and her eyes narrowed as if her patience had just snapped. “Fuck this.” She barreled forward, slamming her palms against my chest. “I’ve answered every question you’ve asked. And you’re still treating me like the enemy. Well, fuck—” She pushed me again. “You.”

I felt the blackness rising from the floor at my bare feet and creeping up my body, surrounding me, seeping inside me. The unwanted desire to claim. To own. It was a sickness, a hunger I fought to control. And she’d awakened the beast.

I wanted to strangle her.

And I wanted to fuck her.

But I felt as though I was called to save her.

Since the second I laid eyes on her, every need, every thought, every desire that involved this woman was twisted.

The air hissed between us. My father always told me if you want to find the truth, look in someone’s eyes. Hers were wild with the same fucked-up notions that were behind mine.

I snatched her wrists from my chest and locked them in my grip. Then, I walked her against the back of the couch, pinning her body with mine. With my other hand, I grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. Her pulse throbbed in that delicate little place where her neck met her shoulder. Proof of exactly how fragile she was. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t try to break free.

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