Page 87 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He blinks at me, still half-asleep, lips parted, hair a fucking mess. His eyes scan my face like he’s trying to figure out if this is real or if he’s still dreaming, and then he looks down at his arm where my teeth marks are already starting to fade.

“Motherfucker, you bit me,” he says, outraged.

“You looked too goddamn cute,” I mutter, unapologetic as fuck. “Had to do something about it.”

He groans again, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into the pillow. “You’re a fucking menace.”

“You love it,” I say, smirking against his shoulder as I lean in and bite him again, but this time, he lunges. In a flash, he twists around and tackles me, knocking me onto my back, his weight pressing me into the mattress.

“Fucker,” he grits out, straddling my waist as he tries to pin my arms down.

I grin up at him. “You’re slow as fuck when you wake up, Hotshot.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, his fingers digging into my wrists.

I could flip him in a second, but I don’t. Because watching Roman all worked up, his hair a mess, his lips swollen, his muscles flexing as he tries to hold me down?

Yeah.

I’ll fuckinglet him win.

He narrows his eyes, noticing the way I’m not really fighting back and his lips curl into a slow smirk. “You’re letting me win,” he accuses, shifting his weight lower.

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“You cocky piece of shit.” Then—he fucking tickles me and I lose it.

“Fuck!” I bark out, thrashing as his fingers dig into my ribs. “You cheating little—”

Roman cackles, dodging my attempt to grab him, his grip tightening as he goes for my sides again. “Say I win,” he taunts, the tone of his voice smug as he leans in closer.

“Never,” I wheeze, desperate to keep a straight face.

He grins, his hands relentless. “Say it, bitch.”

I’m shaking now, my body jerking under his weight as I try to twist away. Fucking asshole. “Fine!” I gasp, chest heaving. “You win!”

Roman stops instantly, grinning down at me like he just won the fucking Stanley Cup. “Damn right, I do,” he mutters, looking way too pleased with himself.

I scowl up at him, trying to catch my breath. “I let you win.”

“Sure you did,” he says, rolling off me and stretching like some smug little shit. I watch him for a second, still winded, my ribs sore from both his attack and my own laughter. I should be pissed, but I’m not. Because for the first time in what feels like fucking forever, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.

And it’s all because of him.

Roman fucking Bishop.

Roman

Idon’twanttoleave.

Damon might say he’s okay, might sound like he’s got his shit together, but after last night? After this morning? My gut is screaming at me that I need to stay. But I have practice, and I know if I don’t show, Coach will have my ass.

He must see the hesitation written all over my face because he exhales through his nose and grabs my hoodie, pulling me closer. “Baby, I’ll be fine.”

I don’t believe him. I don’t fucking believe him.

“You weren’t fine yesterday,” I say, grabbing his wrists. “You weren’t fine when I got here.”

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