Page 33 of Vicious Games

I knew him preventing me from leaving last night had only been his anger at being rejected. He’d probably tell me to get the fuck out of his house the moment he set eyes on me this morning.

It would be for the best. Forcing me to leave would actually save me from myself because, in this moment, I wasn’t sure I would leave of my own accord. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Thank God it hadn’t been in the duffel bag Roman had tossed in the fire.

Eleanor had been texting me all night. I finally texted her back this morning. As soon as Roman left, I was sneaking out to meet her at my favorite museum to explain everything.

Taking a deep breath, I turned to face the dining room doors.

Time to get this over with…

I checked to see that the lock was unhooked and pulled on the latches. The double pocket doors silently disappeared into the wall. Not surprisingly, Roman’s dining room wasn’t so much a dining room as it was a medieval hall. It was part of the annexed building of the gothic church he had added when he converted it into a home. Roman had retained a gothic splendor with massive tapestries and an enormous gargoyle-flanked stone fireplace that was so tall I could stand in it.

Roman was already sitting at the end of the long, natural wood-edged table.

His appearance shocked me. I was accustomed to seeing impeccably tailored suits in the mornings as he prepared to go to the office. Today he was still wearing the tuxedo he wore last night without the jacket and bow tie. There was a deep five o’clock shadow on his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. In a strange way, it pleased me to know he had gotten little more sleep than I.

“Good morning,” I said softly as I slid into the high-backed chair to his right.

He remained silent. His eyes were transfixed on me as the tip of his finger slowly circled the edge of his coffee cup.

I coughed to clear my throat. “About last night—”

Before I could continue, a servant entered. He was carrying a silver tray with a single cloche-covered dish on it. He placed the dish in front of me, bowed and left the room, softly closing the double doors that I had deliberately left ajar.

I frowned. Usually the servants set up a small breakfast on the sidebar for Roman and me. I was used to just helping myself to spoonfuls of fluffy scrambled eggs, stewed tomatoes, and sausages. I stared at the covered dish as I kept my hands folded in my lap.

“Eat.”

I started at the sound of Roman’s voice. His command seemed to echo off the wooden-rafter walls.

“I was waiting for you to be served.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a macabre imitation of a smile. “I insist.”

My gaze returned to the dish in front of me. With a shaking hand, I lifted the silver-domed cloche off my plate. There was no food.

In the center of the plate was the engagement ring Roman had proposed with last night.

My heart raced. I stared at the ring as if at any moment it was going to spring to life and kill me.

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “Put it on your finger.”

I licked my lips. “Roman—”

“Put. It. On.” He ground out each word as if it were crushed glass beneath his teeth.

My vision blurred. “I can’t.”

“So help me God, Aurora. If you don’t put that fucking ring on your finger, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

“You can’t threaten someone into marrying you.”

“Watch me.”

I slammed the cloche back down on the plate and rose. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

Roman stood up so abruptly the heavy chair he was sitting on flew backward and slammed against the wall.

I ran for the double doors and pulled at the latches. Nothing happened. I pulled again. They didn’t move. Roman must have had the servant lock us in. I turned as Roman approached. Casting a hurried glance around the room, I fled to the other side of the long table as I raced toward the other exit.

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