One. Two. Three. Four.
He’s up to something.
I count the number of chews it takes to soften up a bite of steak before swallowing while watching Roman from beneath my lashes. He’s focused on his food, cutting it into chunks and chewing them with pleasure.
Everything about tonight—from Leo’s departure, the wine, and now—makes me suspicious.
I could tell he didn’t expect to see Leo when he walked into the kitchen. He was equally surprised to see the wine glasses. And I bet it had something to do with Leo leaving, not the excuse of “having something to do.”
But if he didn’t want Leo hanging around or staying for dinner, why is he here?
He could’ve gone to bed and it would’ve been like any other day. The dots aren’t connecting. Which means something is afoot.
It could be either of two things—he’s found my father and is trying to keep me distracted so I don’t warn Nico that he’s on to them, or…I don’t know. I can’t seem to come up with any other explanation, and it drives me to frustration.
I grip my fork, lifting my head to glare at his oblivious face. His ruggedly handsome, well-defined, utterly infuriating face.
Bastard.
I jab my fork into the table without thinking. The wood doesn’t budge, and the fork springs back, catching the side of my palm and scraping it.
“Shit. Shit,” I mutter, dropping it like it’s burning me.
“Do you need help with the steak?”
My head snaps up. Roman looks at me with calm patience. The kind people use when speaking to small children. He gestures toward my plate, his voice mild. “Do you need some help?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine. I can handle it. Thank you.”
His gaze drops to the fork, still lying crooked on the table. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel the judgment all the same.
I reach for the fork again, this time with purpose, wrapping my hand around the handle like I’ve got something to prove. I aim carefully, steadying myself. Then I bring it down toward the steak—
And miss it entirely.
Freaking typical. Just freaking typical. Of all the days to lose a battle with food, it just has to be today. “I’m fine,” I hiss as I pick the fork up again. “So you can stop looking at me like I’m clumsy.” But I don’t trust myself to aim right the third time, so I reach for the vegetables instead.
At least I’m being healthy.
I shove the vegetables into my mouth, crunching with a vengeance, too angry to taste the flavors exploding in my mouth. They taste like failure, more failure and frustration.
Roman returns to his plate, cutting up his steak with ease. I chomp down harder on the vegetables, biting my tongue in the process.
Fucking—he reaches for my plate of steak, swapping it with his. “There,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “That should work.”
“Why?” I snap, even though the slices are clean, precise, and way better than I could manage. “I didn’t ask for yours.”
He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You needed it.”
No.
No.
I burn with frustration. His help doesn’t ease the tension—it fuels it. “You don’t know what I need, Roman,” I say through clenched teeth. “And acting like you do just makes you look like a narcissist.”
He doesn’t react like I want, robbing me of a reason to lash out. He tilts his head and calmly asks, “Would burying your fork in my face make you feel better?”
My lips part in shock. I glance down. The fork in my hand is pointed—at his face. I let it drop in horror, staring at the sliver like it’s covered in blood.
Why should I feel terrible about wanting to draw a little blood from the man who kidnapped me? “If I did,” I say, tilting my chin in defense, “then you deserved it, don’t you think?”
“I thought you were against violence?” he replies smoothly, and I can tell he’s mocking me. He’s referring to my father.
I ignore the subtlety, pretending the subject is still food. “If it’s deserved, then yes, I support it. But I won’t use an innocent object to even the odds.”
My subtle message isn’t lost on him as he arches a brow. My father might’ve killed yours, but you didn’t have to drag me into it.
His eyes darken, and his fingers reach out. I flinch instinctively, but he stops at the bottle of Merlot, picking it and pouring it into my empty glass. “You should have some more wine. It goes well with the steak.”
God. I grit my teeth so hard the sound grates on my nerves. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met. Egoistic, narcissistic, terrible, unimaginable—”
“Brute?” he cuts in before I’m done ranting.
“Yes,” I spit. “You’re a brute. And don’t think for one second that knowing who you are makes it any better, because it doesn’t.”
Roman leans back slightly, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips as he lifts his glass. “You’re beautiful when you’re pissed off.”
I freeze mid-breath. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He sips the wine casually, like he didn’t just flip the entire conversation on its head. “The fire suits you. Makes your eyes sharper, your voice stronger.”
My mouth opens, then closes. My brain short-circuits. “I—that’s not the point,” I finally manage, flustered beyond coherence.
“No,” he says, gaze steady on mine. “But it’s true.”
I part my lips, but the words stick to my tongue, shy and unsure. Groaning, I shove my mouth full of steak and vegetables, glaring at him as I chew. I was right when I thought that something was afoot.
Roman Volkov is incapable of being kind or courteous. If he thinks I’ll let it slip unnoticed, he has another thing coming.
I find myself tossing and turning for hours, unable to sleep without Roman and my father fighting for space in my thoughts. Pulling the covers over my head and pretending I’m in some faraway place doesn’t work, so I give up.
Swinging my feet over the edge of the bed with a groan, I stand up and head to the bathroom to wash my face. When I head out, I plop back on the edge of the bed and stare at the pillow over my shoulder.
Fluffy, cold pillow. If I lie down on it, I bet I’ll fall asleep.
Nope.
After another ten minutes of desperately searching for sleep, I toss on a sweater and longer pants before heading out of my room. The house is quiet, and the silence echoes so loudly that I tiptoe down the stairs, careful not to make a noise.
“Tea,” I mutter as I go over my options. Coffee would be my first option, but if I plan to get any sleep, then some herbal tea would work best.
As I make my way toward the kitchen, a pair of low voices drifts in from the living room—serious, clipped, and tense. I stop mid-step, instinctively holding my breath.
“We still don’t know where he is—”
Leo.
“Then we keep looking.”
Roman.
I don’t need to hear the rest to know who they’re talking about. My stomach twists painfully, and I glance back at the staircase just a few feet away. I should turn around. Go back upstairs. Pretend I never heard a thing.
Because whatever they’re planning—it won’t end well.
I may have already grieved the father I thought I had and come to terms with the fact that I’ll probably never see him again…but that doesn’t mean I’m numb.
That doesn’t mean I can stand here and listen to them talk about him like he’s already dead. But I don’t leave.
Instead, my bare feet move silently across the floor, careful not to make a noise. The dread in my stomach digs deeper as I move closer, but curiosity eats at me, stubborn and unrelenting.
I need to know. It’s not just curiosity, but also the part of me that can’t quite let my father go. I hate him for everything I know now, but he was the only parent I had. He taught me almost everything I know. I would’ve done anything for him. It’s hard to let go of something like that.
The conversation continues as I edge closer, stopping after a few feet and pressing my back to the wall, staying just out of sight.
Leo’s voice cuts through. “And once you find him? What then?”
There’s a moment of silence where the only sound is my heart pounding so loudly I fear they’ll hear it. Then Roman answers, his voice colder than anything I’ve heard. “I kill him.”
My breath catches, and my hand flies to my mouth to muffle the gasp. His response shouldn’t surprise me. He’s said it more times than I can count…that his end goal is killing my father. A life for a life.
Yet, hearing it aloud, not as a response to my taunts, tears something inside me. I bite my lip as tears fill my ears, forcing them to stay hidden.
Leo speaks again, quieter this time. “And Isabella? You think she’ll forgive you for killing her father?”
My pulse jumps. Me? I’ve never really thought about it. What would I do if Roman killed my father? Could I forgive him, even if he proves that it was just?
As the questions fill my head, I wait. I wait, holding my breath for Roman’s answer. “Why should that matter?” he asks gruffly.
Again, I expected it. He never once asked for my opinion or cared to know what I’d do if he took away the last family I had. But expecting it doesn’t make it hurt less. Tears bloom afresh, stinging my eyes until my vision blurs, but I refuse to let them fall.
I bite my lip harder until the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
“Get a grip,” I whisper to myself. “You’re not some weak thing. You don’t cry over men like Roman Volkov. Not anymore.” Roman. My father. I’m done caring about what they do and tailoring my emotions to their actions.
I inhale deeply, swallowing thickly. “I’m okay,” I mutter. “I’m okay.”
It still stings, and I bury my hands under my sweater, gripping the bottom as I turn. I’ve barely taken two steps when I hear Leo ask—
“Will you let her go, then? You said you were going to make her your wife. You’ve done that. It was to spite Marco. Then you said you’d make her the mother of your children. Who will that be for, Roman? You?”
“I’ll let you give my message to Marco Ricci. Tell him that I intend to marry his daughter and that she will be pregnant with my heir by this time next month.”
Those were the exact words he said in the cathedral. He wasn’t going to just marry me—I had to carry his heir.
My palm covers my stomach possessively as the thought of being pregnant with Roman’s child slips into my head.
A girl. Smart. Stubborn. Fearless.
A boy. Strong. Brave. Courageous.
No. I shake my head vigorously, pushing the thought away with venom. What am I thinking? His baby? His kids? A harsh laugh peels past my lips, and I don’t bother muffling it. I’d die before I let Roman continue his lineage through me. I’d rather return to that field and die of dehydration before I let a child grow in his world.
At least Boris Glazastov’s son was a tool to unite both families. He was never going to be at the helm of anything.
But Roman? Roman Volkov, who everyone fears. Even my father, or he wouldn’t have gone into hiding.
“So?” Leo echoes his question. “Is she still useful after you’ve carried out your revenge?”
The silence that follows doesn’t startle me. Not anymore. It doesn’t even tug at my curiosity. I’ve already heard enough—more than enough.
My hands drop limply to my sides, and I start walking again, slowly, one step at a time.
“I need her.”
The words crash into me. My body freezes mid-step, and my head jerks toward the living room, breath caught in my throat. That couldn’t have been real.
I must’ve imagined it, or conjured the words in some pathetic, desperate hope that I still mean something to him beyond being a pawn in his bloody mission.
I wait. Just a second longer. But there’s nothing. Swallowing the lump rising in my throat, I sigh and turn toward the kitchen, convincing myself I heard only what I wanted to hear.
