Page 39 of Owned By The Bratva King

“Yes.” Roman shrugs and gives me a lop-sided grin. “What? To hear you talk, anyone would think it was weird.”

I can’t help but laugh. “There’s so much I don’t know about you. All this observing you’ve been doing?—“

“I resent that.” He arches a brow. “Call it like it is. It’s stalking, and I’ll have you know it takes a lot of effort.”

“Do you always do this? If you’re seeing a girl, does that depend on whether her curtains are open?”

“You sound like my good friend Leon, who has been taking the piss out of me since this began.” He picks up the pizza box. “And no, I’ve never done this before. I have lost my head and made a fucking fool of myself, but I regret nothing.”

I draw a deep breath and ask, “Were you leaving at first, but then you changed your mind?”

Roman looks me in the eye as he speaks. “Ask me that as two questions, then don’t ask anything more. Okay?”

“Did you plan to leave?”

“Yes.”

The ice block inside is back, chilling my blood. “And you changed your mind?”

“Again, yes.”

“Why?”

“No more for now, Quinn. Let’s find a late movie.”

I think about pressing the matter, but his expression is stony, so I desist. Besides, he may tell me something I don’t want to know.

Roman and I set out the food and perch self-consciously on the edge of the couch. It’s awkward for a moment until he takes my glass from my hand and puts it on the table.

“Come on.” He folds his arms around me. “Let’s be a normal couple for a while.”

I melt into his embrace, and he kisses my forehead before nestling me into his chest. He clicks through the channels.

“So here’s a secret for you,” he says. “My mother’s favorite film was Roman Holiday, so much so that she named me after it, but I’ve never seen it. It’s about to start on TLC. Whaddayasay?”

“Hand me some pizza, and you’re on.”

Roman peels a slice from the pie and holds it to my mouth. “Take a bite, rusalka. Your wish is my command.”

32

The next morning…

Roman

Iawake to an unfamiliar feeling of bliss. I’ve never done hard drugs, but I imagine this is what it’s like before your life begins to unravel.

Quinn is enveloped in my arms, her warm back against my chest. She’s naked, and although it wouldn’t take much to rouse my interest, I don’t want to wake her yet.

She’s used to control, which is evident in her inability to resist it. She knows I have been stalking her and orchestrating changes in her life, yet had little to say on the subject. Even the knowledge I’d been watching her apartment didn’t phase her like it should.

Her isolation and loneliness may have been a defense mechanism designed to keep away dangerous people who would seek to rule her. I can’t deny that her particular psychology makes her easy prey for me, but it does nothing to distract from the creeping unease coiling in my gut.

I want her to tell me about her life. Who hurt her? Where are they now?

I disentangle myself from Quinn’s sleeping frame and go into her lounge. The pizza box is still on the table, so I put it in the trash and fire up the coffee machine.

My cell phone is on the table, the voice message icon flashing, so I dial my voicemail inbox, putting it on speaker as I stir cream into my coffee.

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