Page 54 of Possession

It’s the most I’ve ever heard him say at once and while part of me warms at his possessiveness, another part of me is chilled to remember what I did last night. I haven’t really thought about it. My mind keeps skipping around it.

It’s not that I regret it or think it was wrong. It’s just that I didn’t know I was capable of something like that. I don’t know how that piece of me fits with the rest.

I was so angry. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that before. It was like it came out of nowhere. I didn’t even know I was that angry. On Roman’s behalf. On my own as well. And though I’m calm now, I think that on some level, I’m still that angry.

I certainly know that Roman is—and he has every fucking right to be. But I love that he can be calm as well.

Roman sighs. “I should get dressed. Find Vitali. I don’t want him trying to come in here.”

“You two don’t get along?”

“We used to. I mean, we always fought, but we were close. But now … I don’t know. I didn’t like what he was doing last night.”

“Asking me questions?”

“Whatever he was doing.”

“He was asking me questions,” I emphasize. I feel compelled to acknowledge, “I mean, you can’t really blame him. He said you’d been missing for four years. He thought you were dead.”

I’m trying to prompt him for an explanation, but what I get instead is, “But you were scared.”

I feel my face heat. “Well, yeah, he’s kinda scary. I used to be scared of you too, you know.”

“You should still be scared of me.” He nips my neck. “And that’s different.”

I snort.

He grunts like he’s annoyed that I don’t believe him. Then he pulls away and walks to a closed door. He opens it to reveal a walk-in closet. That’s what I glimpse around him. He’s stopped in the doorway.

“Roman?”

He jolts a little and walks inside, flipping on the light. Frowning, I go to join him.

“Holy shit,” I exclaim, immediately distracted by the huge collection. There’s a whole section of suits. There are a lot of shoes and other accessories.

“You have alotof clothes.”

The words slip out because I am so shocked. The clothes, with all the money and style they represent, seem to belong to a completely different person than the one I know.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s why he’s breathing so hard right now. Because these clothesdobelong to a different person. The man whose scarred back I’m looking at, who’s been brutalized to the point he stopped speaking entirely, is not the same man who wore these clothes four years ago.

I go to stand beside him. When he looks at me, when I have his attention, I take his hand. I tug. He comes with me out of the closet.

“Let me pick something,” I tell him. When he doesn’t respond, I say, “Roman.”

His eyes jump to me.

“Okay?”

He gives a slight nod, so I go back into the closet. I try not to get caught up in the quantity and the money, but it’s so bizarre to me. I guess it’s bizarre to him too, now.

On the shelves I find sweatpants and t-shirts. I grab a white shirt and a pair of gray sweats.

When I emerge with them, Roman is gone. The bathroom door is closed and the light on behind it. I set the clothes on the bed and make a circuit of the room.

His room.

The style is pretty modern with its black leather couch and massive, minimalist bed. Except for the highly curated closet, the space isn’t very personal. There’s a TV, but no books or personal belongings in sight. Even my own shitty little apartment has more personal items. Books. Action figures. My medals from wrestling.

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