Page 41 of Possession

The things that I love about being here with him aren’t enough. This place is bad and dangerous and wrong. We’re captives. We can be killed or abused at any time. The only reason I’m safe is because Roman stands between me and our captors. His abusers.

And they’re not his first abusers. He won’t tell me what Crowley was talking about with the prison and arena that he bought Roman from, but I can make my own guesses. And I can see from the varying ages of Roman’s scars and I can tell from the ways he’s adapted, that he’s been in terrible circumstances for a long time.

That’s why he won’t tell me anything about himself or his past. It’s too traumatic for him.

And the future here only holds more of the same. I know that. I know, too, that eventually he’ll be killed, and so will I.

Most of the time, I don’t let myself think about that, but it’s always hovering in the background. It’s part of what makes me focus so intensely on the present, enjoy it so much—because I know it won’t last, and even the present is only bright between its black moments. It’s only bright when I focus solely on Roman and ignore our larger reality.

This isn’t okay. Of course it’s not.

Roman’s gaze meets mine again. Maybe he sees the despair in my eyes. I certainly see it in his. Then anger spills into his eyes again.

“Move,” he snaps, and this time I do.

As he starts hitting the bag again, I watch how his anger saves him. I see how it keeps him upright, how it keeps him fighting, how it’s helped him survive.

But that doesn’t work for me. My eyes prickle. Tears spill down my cheeks. The world blurs and tilts.

Then Roman is there. He grabs onto me and holds me tight against him.

I wrap my arms around his sweaty torso. I let him hold me up. His breath puffs against my head. His hand grips the back of my neck.

He says quietly, terrifyingly, “I will fix this.”

***

I spend several days on edge. I’m afraid of what Roman will do, of what the consequences will be. I can’t enjoy our next shower or even the fresh blankets when we get back. I barely react when my clothes are finally taken and laundered for me.

But nothing happens—because there’s nothing thatcanhappen.

Roman can’t fix this because there are no opportunities. There never have been, or he wouldn’t be in this position. He wouldn’t have years of scars on his body.

I feel guilty that I’m relieved, and I’m well aware that my sense of security is false. I only need a glimpse of his scars to remind myself of that. I only need to remember that shock collar around his neck or the threatening way that Briggs looks at him. We’re vulnerable to abuse, especially him because he protects me. He’ll have to fight again. We’re in a bad place.

Iknowthat.

But then we lie on the bed while I read our new book,Starship Troopers, and I feel safe with him. I feel, for the first time in my life, like I’m home. Because this space that contains only us is good.

I surprise myself with a yawn mid-sentence. I don’t know why I’m so sleepy. We just ate breakfast. I get through a few more sentences before I find my eyes drifting closed.

“Lucas.”

Roman’s hand on my shoulder half wakes me. I fumble for the book, which has fallen from my grasp.

The mattress shifts as Roman gets up. That stirs me enough to watch as he steps over me. He stumbles, barely catching himself.

I try to get up, but I can’t. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a wordless mumble of concern. A door opens and closes. Roman snarls, but I can’t see who’s approaching the bars. My eyes are closed, I realize. I can’t open them.

I hear Briggs say, “It’s a long drive to Boston, Beast. Maybe I’ll get my turn.”

I hear another snarl—then the heavy thud of Roman’s body hitting the floor.

FOURTEEN

Roman

I wake to noise and cold and the pressure of the shock collar at my throat. Light bleeds through my eyelids. I’m sitting on something like a bench. My arms are behind me, my wrists cuffed to something. My feet are bound as well.

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