Page 32 of Marked By Him

He was heartbreakingly beautiful in the most savage of ways.

And he was going to destroy me if I let him. I’d be like the woman on the street, desperate for his attention, roasting chicken and begging for a minute alone with him.

Fuck that.

I was better than that. I was stronger than that.

I tucked a foot under my butt and curled up in the corner of the couch. Then, I grabbed the book and started reading again, willing my thoughts to go anywhere but on him.

I got lost in the pages, sucked into the story. All my questions disappeared. My thoughts strayed to Reverend Dimmesdale, Hester Prynne and the affair that uprooted their whole world. Time was suspended. I was transported to a colony in Massachusetts. I met two lovers by a babbling brook in a forest. I was inspired by a heroine’s strength. And my heart was torn open by the world’s judgment.

I was midway through the book when the front door opened. Bright light filled the room, and every inch of my body tingled with awareness.

He was back.

The door closed behind him, and his eyes latched onto mine. Deep blue seas to rich brown earth. I was swept up in his rugged features. Heat flowed from his pores, sending goosebumps pebbling my skin in anticipation. He worked his jaw. The thick cords in his neck strained and flexed.

My lips parted.

I waited.

Where have you been?

The question was on the tip of my tongue, even though I had no right to ask.

I set the book on the cushion and angled my body toward him. “How many people end up here, lost and alone?” I asked instead.

Was the woman from earlier one of them?

Roman closed his eyes and blew out a breath, as though the question was a relief compared to whatever thoughts were running through his mind.

He opened his eyes again, then stepped into the living room. “As far as I can remember, just you.” He stopped and sat on the arm at the other end of the couch, smoothing a hand over the linen fabric covering his thighs. “No one comes here. Sometimes a familiar shows up, pretending to need help in order to get inside. Then, they try to lure us into the forest, but we haven’t had that happen in a while.”

I uncurled my leg from under my butt and sat up straight. “You thought I was one of them.” He thought I was a familiar—a pathetic human who followed vampires around, hoping for a chance to become one of them.

“You were a stranger who showed up at my gate covered in blood.”

“And now what do you think?”

“If I thought you were one of them, you’d still be strapped to that chair in my basement, choking on your own blood. Instead, I let you drink my whiskey, wear my t-shirt, and sleep in my bed.”

His words rolled over me like liquid heat. Down my neck, over my chest, bringing my nipples to a peak, grazing my belly, then pooling between my thighs.

He made it sound sensual—me in his shirt and in his bed. I imagined it, the raw possession of what that symbolized. The air was so thick with need, I could barely breathe.

Roman must have felt it too because his pants tightened over his erection. Thin linen against sheer power. Every outline of the flared head and thick veins strained against the front of his pants. The fabric didn’t stand a chance.

He ran the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip, not making a move to adjust himself or hide it. It was crude, untamed, and vulgar.

And it made my stomach clench.

He glanced at the book resting on the couch cushion. “What did you choose?”

“The Scarlet Letter.”

He scoffed, then dropped his hand to his lap. “I could’ve sworn I said pick something light.”

“You don’t like it?”

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