Roman (Raleigh Raptors #2) - Samantha Whiskey Page 0,7
better than to lock me out.”
I swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize I did it,” I said, my voice cracking as I hugged the towel closer around me. “I thought you were out for the night and I must’ve just—”
His fingers gripped my chin, stopping my words. “This is my house,” he said. “Just like everything inside it is mine. Including you.”
Normally, his laying claim to me gave me a rush of primal warmth. Right now? Nothing but icy fear clung to my blood.
“Babe,” I said, the word coming out a little jumbled due to his grip. “It was an accident.”
His gaze narrowed for a few seconds before he released me. He glanced down, reaching for the towel.
I swallowed hard, my body not in the mood, but my mind shouting at me to keep quiet. Rejecting him would only make things worse.
His fingers flicked, and the towel fell to my ankles. He motioned toward the tub, still filled with water and bubbles. “Don’t let me stop you.”
I titled my head for a second but quickly got back in the tub. After a few moments, I finally asked, “Aren’t you getting in?”
Rick shook his head as he leaned against the counter on the other side of the bathroom. “Nope,” he said. “I’m just going to watch you.”
I blinked out of the memory and twisted the damn lock. Not out of any fear of Roman coming inside while I was showering—hell, the boy and I used to take baths together. But more out of a sense of power. Of control. Any form of it.
I climbed into Roman’s shower a few minutes later, sighing as the hot water hit my skin. My biceps stung as the beads hit them, and I glanced down. Fingerprint bruises encircled each arm—he’d grabbed me that hard.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I tried to empty my mind.
Every harsh word.
Every held breath as I felt his anger shift.
Every time I’d recoiled from his massive presence.
I clenched my eyes shut, trying to stop the memories hitting me like a tidal wave. Each one illuminating my cowardice more than the next. They’d all been buried beneath that haze of manipulation—something I hadn’t even realized he’d been doing, he was that good at it. And the breaking point? The moment those memories and events had become crystal clear for what they truly were?
Him going through my private belongings like he had the right to them.
Him grabbing me so hard I had bruises.
Him tossing me against that wall so hard my head spun.
Everything had become utterly, horrifically clear in those few moments—like someone had flipped on a light switch in an incredibly dark room. Illuminating all the gory bits the shadows had hid.
Wash your hair.
Condition your hair.
Then dry your fucking hair.
The simple steps were the only thing I’d allow myself to focus on at the moment, the only thing that could possibly keep me from crumbling. So, I reached for my shampoo…
Not my shampoo.
Roman’s.
I squeezed the woodsy scented stuff into my palm and lathered up my strands, working it harder than necessary.
I didn’t even have my own shampoo.
And a half-hour later, as I toweled off, I realized I didn’t have a hairdryer either.
Or facewash.
Anything.
I wiped the steam from the mirror, looking at myself for the first time. The purple beneath my blue eyes, the bruises on my arms.
I had nothing.
No toiletries, no clothes. I didn’t even own the car I’d driven over here.
My stomach hit the floor as reality dawned on me.
I slipped back into Roman’s T-shirt and shorts, and stormed to the kitchen where I’d left my purse. I fished out my phone, quickly drawing up my banking app.
The world froze as I stared at the number on my account.
Zero.
A wave of nausea rushed over me, and I sank atop the barstool, tears rushing down my cheeks.
Rick had insisted we keep a joint account. I’d thought it was so considerate, too, seeing as he made infinitely more money than I did. But every piece I’d sold brought me that much closer to contributing in a real way. I’d earned a decent income the past year.
And it was gone.
“Teagan?” Roman asked, kneeling before me. “What is it?”
I turned the phone toward him. “He took it.”
“What?” Roman snapped, taking my phone.
“I have nothing,” I said, more to myself than to him. “All that art I sold. Gone. My supplies. He bought. My clothes, my books…” I shook my head. “Any money I earned to get my own place, he took. I have nowhere to go.”