He grabs a duffle bag off the floor, opens the door, clicks the internal lock, then shuts it behind him. I squirm against his shoulder, still beating his back and kicking his front, growling obscenities under my breath.

But if I’m completely honest with myself, it’s all for peace of mind that I tried—that I wasn’t an entirely willing victim. We both know the truth. It’s right there in front of us and undeniable under the cloudy night sky: If I truly wanted to be free of him, I would be.

I could scream, and everyone around would hear. Other than us and the insects of the night, there isn’t a sound to be heard in the less-than-safe neighborhood. But still, I stay silent as he carries me through the empty street.

Roman’s steps are so leisurely and confident that even the best detective could be convinced he isn’t abducting someone. I manage to prop myself up on his shoulders to watch the place I lived for the past four years shrink in the distance until it’s hidden behind trees. It’s hard to believe everyone is fast asleep in their beds, unaware of the carnage in house number thirty-four.

Roman drops me to my feet beside an unassuming pickup truck, clamps his hand on my arm, and tsks. “Don’t even think about it.”

I frown at him. I wasn’t even thinking about running; I was just waiting for him to unlock the truck so I could step inside. What is wrong with me?

The second he opens the car door, I rip myself from his grip and slip inside. The more he touches me, the more my anger toward him wanes, and I deserve to be angry for everything that’s happened.

He’s breaking my resolve too quickly.

When the door shuts, I’m left alone in the quiet darkness of the car. Suddenly, everything comes crashing down—the adrenaline, the nerves, the ache between my legs, and the tender skin beneath the ropes. A single tear trails down my cheek, and I wipe it away before he can see.

This is really happening.

Roman used to be terrible at chess and sub-par at mind games. He’d prefer inflicting the type of pain that comes from his hand and a well-chosen weapon. But that’s part of the problem; he used to be that way. The person who smiled at me when I first came down the stairs earlier tonight is all man. He’s physically changed in ways I can’t even begin to describe, with broader shoulders and a sharper jaw. What about on the inside?

Has this man mastered owning the board and come to play with a different type of toy? Something else he can use and discard once he’s bored.

The air electrifies when he drops himself into his seat with the same grace as a lion, humming an unknown tune as the car comes to life. Roman drives us away from the neighborhood and onto one of the back streets, tapping the wheel and filling the silence with his sounds.

He’s relaxed and at ease.

He’s fucking crazy.

If it weren’t for the evidence of his brutality splattered on his face, I wouldn’t believe him if he told me about what he just did.

There wasn’t a single secret between us for almost twelve years, and now I don’t even know how to speak to him and break the silence. The dynamic between us has shifted. It’s no longer the princess and her knight. It’s something far simpler: the prisoner and her captor.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask when I can’t stand listening to any more of his goddamn humming and tapping.

“Home.” He doesn’t hesitate with his answer, and his tone has an almost patronizing edge, like his response was a given.

“You just took me from it.”

He snorts. “That was a house, but it wasn’t your home.” Roman adjusts himself in his seat and checks the rearview mirror. I’m guessing it’s to see if we’re being followed. “Our home is wherever we make it.”

Our. We. He’s talking like someone who isn’t just going to disappear again.

“You went too far.”

“No amount of blood spilled will ever be too much for you.”

“When will it end?”

He smirks. “When I’m in a grave, and even then, Hell won’t keep me from you.”

I jump when his warm hand lands on my leg without a single thread to separate our skin. The contact makes me heady in my already delirious mind. I have to squeeze my legs together, because my body hasn’t forgotten the state he brought me to in the house. I grab his wrist to try to push him away, but my pathetic attempt does nothing against his brute strength.

I know what he’ll find if he dips his hands into my shorts again. No matter how much I tell myself that I shouldn’t want this or that I am meant to be angry at him, my body has other ideas. He has the face of an angel and the mind of the devil.

“But you’ll ruin me,” I whisper.

I watch as his smile turns ravenous, and the desire to run kicks in. “Does that excite you?”

His hand inches higher until it’s at the junction of my thighs. My voice hitches when I say, “No.”

“Don’t worry. If you break, I’ll put you back together. If you run, I’m running right behind you. If you burn, I’ll burn with you.”

When I look down at his hand, I tense for an entirely different reason. Under the fading lights of the city, I spot a black-and-red embroidered friendship bracelet peeking out beneath his long sleeve shirt.

He still has it.

I glance at my own wrist and swallow.

The bindings dig into my skin, and he catches sight of my wince, frowning to himself.

He moves his hand to fiddle with something on the center dash, but the absence of his touch doesn’t make me breathe any easier. It isn’t until soft chirping filters through the speakers that I stop breathing altogether.

I haven’t listened to a nature podcast in years. We had a list of all the podcasts we wanted to listen to, then every day, we would plan which one we’d listen to that night as we fell asleep under a different roof. He said it would be like we were right next to each other, hearing the same sounds and learning the same things.

When he left, I couldn’t listen to them anymore, because I was too busy wallowing over someone who wasn’t there. And now here we are, listening to the same podcast like the past three years never happened.

I watch skeptically as he pulls a blanket from the back seat and drapes it over my lap.

“Go to sleep,” he says, tone filled with the warmth he’s only ever directed at me. “You’ve had a long night. I’ll wake you up once we’re there.”

I know I should protest, and self-preservation requires I stay awake to see where I am going.

His hand moves languidly up and down my leg, lacking any pretense other than comfort. Against my better judgment, the hypnotic touch makes my muscles relax.

Before sleep pulls me under, I hear him ask, “Do you remember what I told you, Bella? Do you remember what I promised you?”

Of course I do. I could never forget his promise.

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Chapter 7

ROMAN

7 Years Ago

Roman: 15 years old – Isabella: 13 years old.

I’m bad at math, but lately, I’ve been really fucking good at it.

43 weeks.

301 days.

7224 hours.

That’s how long she’s been gone.

I’m great at counting now. Bella would be proud.

She used to tell me that she likes to count the marks on her ceiling when she feels like her mind is a little too much for her. I didn’t see the appeal in counting anything, because putting a value on something implies a limitation.

Now I get it. I’ve started counting my steps as I walk, not always intentionally. Still, I count the bricks in the pavement and add another point for every one my shoe touches. Sometimes I count the number of stairs as I go up or down. I lose focus half the time and miscount, but no one is keeping track. No one will know of the mistake but me.