Page 39 of For a Price

Uncle Leonid had pummeled me likeIhad wrongedhim. His fists came down one after the other with a vicious fury I’ve never experienced. You’d think I’d posed a mortal threat to him the way he attacked me. The violence he unleashed was terrifying.

It’s not like I’ve never been hit before.

Both as a kid and an adult, I’ve been in precarious situations where someone put their hands on me.

Leonid’s attack was something else. It was brutal and endless. I’m not sure if he would’ve stopped had Roman not shown up…

I limp to the bathroom and flick on the light. It’s bright and blinding, making me squint until I adjust. But I’m more concerned with the reflection staring back at me—the woman in the mirror looksrough.

Her face is swollen and discolored. Her eyes are glassy and sad.

My throat aches as I swallow and remember how much it hurts just to talk. Leonid had hit me right in the jaw.

I’m lucky nothing’s broken.

Releasing a small breath, I decide to take a shower. Showers have always made me feel better. Even at my lowest lows, when I was just a stray on the streets with two bucks and some shoestrings to my name, a nice, hot shower could make me feel like the most beautiful princess in the world.

Probably because they were so difficult to come by sometimes…

Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the steamy cloud squeaky clean. My curls are freshly washed as I take to twisting them into sections to air dry.

The bedroom door opens in the middle of one of my twist outs.

Roman enters carrying a tray in one hand and folded up clothes in the other. He sets both down and walks over to the bathroom doorway once he sees me in front of the mirror.

“My kitty cat is awake,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. He folds his thick, well-defined arms over his equally as thick and well-defined chest. “I was worried you’d never wake up.”

He’s teasing. I catch that much as I meet his gaze in the mirror and spot the twinkle in his eyes. I divert mine back to my own reflection and focus on my twist outs.

“I’ve never slept a whole day away like that before.”

“You were exhausted. Your body took a lot.”

“Tell me about it. I feel it. Why am I wearing your shirt?”

His left brow ticks up. “You don’t remember?”

“Everything after the fist met my face is kind of a blur.”

“You joke about it. But it isn’t funny. Leonid will die for what he’s done.”

I don’t say anything, my heart pitter-pattering inside my chest. Roman speaks so casually of murder, I’m not sure what he expects from me. Murder—violence in general—has always been a hard line in the sand for me, even as a criminal.

But he tells me he’s going to kill a man for harming me as if it’s some love declaration. I’m supposed tothankhim.

“Your dress was torn and you were exhausted,” he goes on, answering my question. “I gave you a bath but had nothing else to put on you. Because you were freezing and I didn’t want to make you wait by going to fetch Ivanka and her wardrobe, I pulled the shirt off my back.”

“And I’ve been wearing it ever since…”

“I’ve brought you more clothes. And food. You need to eat.”

An emotion I can’t describe wells up inside my chest. Some kind of panic that’s stifling. Almost like I’m locked away in a cage with no means of escape.

How can I go from finding comfort in wearing Roman’s t-shirt to feeling panic that I’m in his custody?

It’s like I’m at war with myself. Conflicted over everything that’s happened.

Roman must sense I’m stuck in my head. He abandons the doorway to come up behind me. Our reflections are jarring in the mirror—a Black woman of average height and size with purple hair that’s been twisted into sections and whose face is more swollen than usual, and the man who stands behind her, engulfing her by every measure. Roman’s like a mountain looming over me, broad and strong yet undeniably sexy and attractive.

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