Roman stalks closely behind me, moving slowly as if this weren’t a chase my life could depend on. Each of his measured steps echoes through the house, creating a haunting melody that pairs horridly with my racing heart.

Roman Riviera doesn’t play with his food, but he loves playing with his toys.

My vision tunnels on the front door, cream-colored and covered in greasy handprints. An escape. If I can get outside, I can scream.

Just one little scream.

Someone will hear me. The police will come, and this whole nightmare will be over. I’ll be free of this house and finally be able to move on. The state will move little Jeremy to a new house, and if Millie is alive, she’ll get this god-awful place and the store. I can take what I’ve managed to skim from the tills, maybe steal a few of Greg’s and Marcus’s things for extra cash, then go to a new city with no one but myself to look after.

I just need to get past the door and scream.

Freedom is so close, but just out of reach.

Adrenaline floods my veins, ratcheting up the roaring in my ears. “Bella,” he sings, and goosebumps erupt over my cold skin.

We’ve played this game a hundred times before; he gives me a look, and I start running. Back then, it was an innocent game that got my blood racing as the fear of getting caught pumped through me.

It was our own version of tag. He was forever the chaser, and I was forever the one who ran. He’d catch me every single time, no matter how hard I tried.

Back then, it was childish and innocent—even though he never gave up the game when he became legally allowed to vote. Somehow, I don’t think he’s just going to throw me over his shoulder or wrap his arms around me in a soul-crushing hug.

My clammy hands curl around the door handle, and hope springs in my ribcage for the first time in a long time. But the seed that sprouted withers when powerful arms curl around my waist and up my chest until burning fingers wrap around the column of my throat.

“Got you,” he hums against my ear, dragging me back against his firm body and away from any hope of freedom.

“No, no! Let me go!”

I drop my full weight onto him and kick against the door as hard as possible. My escape attempts are futile when all he does is huff and tighten his grip on my throat. A reminder that he can take what he wants, whenever he wants.

“You know better than to run from me. Predators love to hunt.” His hot breath caresses my ear as he whispers.

“Roman, please.”

Please, what? I don’t know.

He buries his head into the crook of my neck, spreading blood from his face and inhaling deeply as he groans. “God, I love it when you beg.”

I freeze, feet suspended in the air, when my mind pieces together what the hardness pressing into my back is.

“Do you realize how much I fucking missed you? I was going insane thinking about you.”

His teeth scrape against the soft skin of my neck, forcing a shiver from me. I’m not sure where his gloves disappeared to, but he lowers me so only the balls of my feet touch the ground, and I have no choice but to lean into him for support.

I realize too late what his plan is when his hand descends to my lower stomach, toying with the waist of my shorts. I gasp, feeling his hard-on pressed up against my ass, grinding ever so slightly. I know this is wrong, and that I shouldn't be feeling this way, but I can't help the unbridled desire this ignites deep within my core.

He hums in approval, dragging his tongue along the column of my throat, trailing liquid fire in his wake. “You taste like every sinful thought I’ve ever had.”

You need to scream for help, my mind whispers.

I stay silent.

Despite everything that makes this wrong, it has never felt more right. After all these years, I hate that the only thing that has ever felt right is being in his arms. Despite all the blood spilled tonight, I hate that this is the safest I’ve felt in three years.

Roman’s fingers disappear beneath the hem of my top and dip into the waist of the pajama shorts he gave me four years ago. Clawing at his arms only seems to encourage him. Still, I don’t stop my desperate movements, even though my body is begging—fighting against my mind—for this to continue.

“Just as I thought,” he rasps. “Fucking soaked.”

“Don’t! Let go of me, Roman.” If I don’t stop him now, I don’t think I’ll have the strength to keep fighting.

“Don’t let go of you?” He laughs darkly. “Oh, that was my plan. You’re all mine now.”

I squirm when another finger joins. They do nothing but rest there, yet it's enough for me to squeeze my legs together in a useless attempt to soothe the climbing need for friction. The rumble of his voice, his intoxicating scent, every inch of space where we touch, it’s enough for me to almost forget what he’s done.

I’m sick and depraved. I haven’t accepted it, but I acknowledged it long ago. It’s difficult not to turn toward the darkness when I spent my days fantasizing about the boy with a sadistic grin and bloody fists, whose knuckles were always split for me.

“Do you know I was thinking about you all that time away?”

My voice disappears with every other thought except one: I was always on his mind. All this time. He missed me.

If that were true, then why didn’t he come back? Why did he leave in the first place?

“I was going crazy thinking about another guy laying a hand on you.” His hold tightens almost painfully. “Do you know what that does to me? Thinking that someone else is touching what’s mine,” he snarls into my neck and demands control over my breathing with the flex of his fingers. “I kept wondering if I consumed your every waking thought, just like you consumed mine.” His fingers inch lower. “I kept thinking about what you felt like in my hands, all the little sounds you made. Fuck, and how fucking divine you felt beneath me.”

I don’t resist when he tips my head to the side to nibble on my jaw. With heavy lids, I stare at the door leading to my freedom while being in the arms of a man who broke me.

“My memories could never compare to the reality of you. Don’t you realize you were made for me? We were made for each other.” Each syllable from his lips is raw and guttural, like he’s hanging by the last threads of his control.

The whimper that escapes me says more than words ever could. We might be a match, but matches burn. Stories end even when the love hasn’t died.

“Say it, Bella,” he whispers. “Say my name.”

I can’t bring myself to say it—to call him the name that started it all. If I do, I’ll let him back into my life and fall back to the bottom of the pit I’ve been trying to crawl out of. My traitorous body melts into his hold, only to stiffen a moment later when one of his fingers brushes the sensitive skin between my legs.

Shaking my head, I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning. My nipples harden underneath the thin material of my shirt, showing him exactly what his wicked words and possessive touch do to me.

He gives me the friction I so desperately need, and any attempt at staying silent disappears. My lips form into an ‘O’ as I try and fail to drop lower to the floor to chase his touch.

I need to—no, have to stop this. But just a second longer, maybe two. I can give myself that much. I can feel my mind screaming, but I lock it away. I deserve to feel good. Right?

“So beautiful,” he mutters.

A blush scorches my flushed cheeks from the guilt of taking pleasure from this gruesome scene, but my body doesn’t care. The gory mess behind us doesn’t stop my hips from buckling to his touch. My nails dig into his arms to pull him away and bring him closer simultaneously.

He moves his fingers with expert precision, knowing which cords to play without reading the notes. I close my eyes and imagine he never left, that I’m still whole.