“No.” I gasp. “No!” Stop touching me. Nothing makes his hold on me falter, keeping me prisoner in the arms of the man who is my reminder of every part of me that I lost the day he left. “You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.”

“I prefer the term ‘artist,’” he quips.

Is he seriously joking right now? “What is your fucking problem? Why are you here? You left, so you should stay gone.”

I was getting better. Every day, it was getting a little easier. I found hope—feeble as it was—that I would one day turn my back on this town and scrub every stain from me, once and for all.

I found a purpose in looking after Jeremy, my little foster brother. It wasn’t much, but I knew even the smallest voices could make the largest impact. Whatever came after was worth making sure Jeremy went to bed unafraid of waking up in the morning.

The muscle in Roman’s jaw feathers. “Go back to bed. I was hoping to finish up without disturbing you.”

Without disturbing me.

So what? Is he only here so that he can leave me again? Have I always been a tool for his own sick enjoyment?

Back to bed.

Without disturbing me.

The words echo over and over, building and filling until it tips over the brim.

I’m so foolish for thinking he might be back for me. That he might stay. I should have known better. He always had a thing against Marcus. He’s just tying up loose ends. Why am I not surprised?

I shove him in the chest. Hard. It’s not enough for him to let go, but it catches him off guard long enough for me to slap him. “Fuck you, Roman. I hate you.”

The excited sparkle in his eyes disappears, recoiling from my words. He knows what it means for me to say his name. “You don’t mean that—"

“Leave,” I hiss, finally looking at him and his beautifully savage features. Why won’t Roman fight me back? Why the hell won’t he react to my hits when it’s clear he doesn’t care about me?

Marcus’s muffled screams fuel my fire—every time I was silenced, every time I had to sit there and just take it, deal with it—I want to let it all out. I want this place to burn.

Fuck Marcus. I hate him, too. He can die along with his pig of a father, for all I care.

Did Roman think he could show up here after three years, torture and slaughter my foster family while I sleep upstairs, and then just leave? All over again. Through the tears, I can only make out the outline of the sharpened edge of his jaw and the dip in his cheeks. Even the shape of him is too much.

“I don’t want you here.” Lie. “You’re a monster.”

“It’s me,” he pleads, cupping my tear-stained face to pull me closer. “It’s your Mickey.”

I kick my legs out, hoping to make an impact with something—anything. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“Bella—Bella, please. It’s me. Mickey. I’m back. I’m going to get you out of here.” His touch is all-consuming. The scent of his cologne seeps into my mind, and I want to give in so badly.

“You abandoned me!” I’ve said it enough times to myself that I sound like a broken record. Saying it out loud to the culprit feels like finding a trove of rot and dead bones that should have stayed buried.

“I know. And I’m sorry, I—"

“Sorry,” I echo. The tears stop, as I see him with complete clarity.

All the words bubbling in my chest want to pour out—all the times I’ve had to say, “thank you,” and smile at men after they hurt me. I’m so fucking sick of it. He doesn’t get to say sorry and expect everything to be forgiven.

“Sorry?” My breath comes out in short pants, and he lets go of me, knowing what’s about to happen. He always knows. “You’re sorry? Sorry? You don’t get to be sorry!” The more I say the word, the less believable it sounds. “You don’t get to come here and act like everything is alright. Do you even know what they did to me? You left me for dead, Roman. You're a coward.” I shove him, even though he’s not holding me anymore. “A fucking coward!”

He doesn’t back away as he should. He doesn’t give me the space I need, but instead continues staring at me with those steel-grey eyes that darken every time his olive skin touches mine. As he moves only slightly, our bodies are still only a hair’s breadth away.

It feels far too good to let out the anger that’s been simmering in my veins for years. Only, I’m not sorry Roman is taking the brunt of it.

My voice comes out raw as my chest heaves. “I can’t believe I trusted you and gave you all of me.” Shove. “I regret ever laying eyes on you.” Shove. “I regret speaking to you.” Shove. “I regret ever meeting you.” This time, when I shove him, he doesn’t budge. His arms encircle my waist, and he presses his cheek against my head. “I hate you, Roman. I fucking hate you. You’re the worst thing to ever happen to me. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

I repeat myself.

Over.

And over.

I don’t know how long I spend yelling, kicking, and scratching. He takes every bit of it without letting me go, not even for a second, rubbing soothing circles on my back. His tender caress continues even when my body is drained of energy and all my fight evaporates, leaving me limp in his hold as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m back. There’s nothing that will separate us now.”

I’ve stopped hearing Marcus’s cry in the background. I don’t have the energy to care that my foster father is dead in the seat, only a few feet away from us. Or that the man who tormented me for the past three years is bleeding out.

I’m so exhausted from everything.

When will it be enough? When will I be able to truly live?

But only two words are swirling through my head: He’s back.

I want to believe him.

But Roman Riviera is a liar.

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Chapter 2

ROMAN

14 Years Ago

Roman: 8 years old – Isabella: 6 years old.

I hate this part of the city as much as I hate the other.

I hate school. Doesn’t matter which school, I know I’ll hate it.

I hate Steve.

I think I hate Steve more than I hate Troy, and I’ve only known Steve for three weeks. I’ve learned he yells louder when I speak in a language he doesn’t understand. Idiot. Yelling tires him out—I think it’s because of the beer he drinks. He leaves me alone the sooner he starts yelling. Then I can run to the room I share with some boy half my size and another guy who’s older than us and thinks that makes him better.

He’s not better. I’m still teaching him this lesson.

I hate those two boys too, Josh and Perez, but since we all agree that we hate Steve more than we hate each other, we haven’t killed each other yet.

I’ll give myself another month in this place before I’m sent to another home. After being expelled from all the other schools on the city's eastern side, Margaret said they had no choice but to move me to another area where they can “accommodate” my different needs.

I’m not sure what that means, but at least I don’t hate Margaret—except when she gives me that look where her eyebrows pinch, and I know she’s about to sigh, “Again, Roman?”

She tries to make me talk about my feelings. She also likes to bring me snacks. I know it’s a bribe because I’ll do anything for a Pop-Tart.

I’m always so freaking hungry.

Even if she feeds me, all adults are stupid. She’s as useless as the rest if she can’t do anything about Steve. Or maybe she doesn’t want to.

But I heard Steve say a couple of words to describe his wife that I think works well for Margaret (sometimes): Fucking Bitch. I don’t know what it means.