“Let’s get you inside, Bella.”

I can’t say anything as he comes around to my side of the car with a duffle bag over his shoulder. He wraps the fallen blanket around me—as I remain mute and stupefied—and leads me to the entrance. He’s taking me into a creepy farmhouse… I should be yelling and screaming right now, begging him not to make me go in there.

I can barely get enough oxygen to my lungs, let alone say anything.

The boards beneath my feet have been scrubbed clean, the silver handle of the door glinting in the dawn as the key glides in smoothly, and Roman pushes the door open without a single squeak.

My feet follow as he guides me deeper into the place and plants me onto a chair. But my brain is struggling to comprehend what I’m seeing. There isn’t much furniture, just a couple of kitchen appliances, a dining table with two chairs, a love seat, and a pile of wood beside the fireplace. A few bottles of soda and energy drinks are scattered throughout the space, and empty takeout packets squeeze into the black plastic bags. The place smells like him: sandalwood and cinnamon.

It smells like home.

Although it’s what isn’t here that speaks volumes. Just like outside, there aren’t any cobwebs or dust. Patches of plaster and cut-up boards dot the walls, covering holes. The place isn’t just repaired; it’s lived in.

The cold settles into my bones, and a violent shiver tears down my spine. Perhaps it’s from the realization that this is where he’s been the whole time. Three hours away from me in the place where I last spent time with him.

The edges of my vision blur with tears. I’ve spent the last three years bitter, sad, and hurt while he was out here, living his life as a—what? Lumberjack? Farmer? What the hell was he doing out here all this time? What made him decide to become a hermit?

Honestly, I wasn’t sure where I thought he might have disappeared to, but I had some ideas: He left to live in another city with a baby momma or Cassie, or maybe he joined the mafia. I even thought he went for a ride and got lost or crashed and died.

Whatever it was, I didn’t deserve the radio silence that I received.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do this,” Roman whispers, voice veiled with strain.

I snap my attention down to him, scowling at him on his knees in front of me, untying my bindings. He’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, even covered in my foster-family’s blood. The screwed-up part of my brain likes that there’s blood on his face. Blood that’s only there because of me.

“But you did it anyway.”

Being in this place is messing with my head. I don’t know when he started fiddling with the ropes or when I decided to talk to him, but now I’m starved for answers.

He moves the ties from my chafed, burning skin, making me hiss.

“Sorry. Does it hurt?” he mutters again, undoing the knot. When I don’t answer, he says, “You left me no choice.”

I snatch my arms away and finish untying myself. The skin isn’t as raw as I thought, but there’s no missing the divots the rope left behind. “Don’t give me that crap. Do you know how many choices you had other than the ones you made tonight? You could have talked to me, sent me a text, oh, or I know, not ghosted me for three years.”

Roman twists a jar open, and I narrow my eyes at it.

He gives me a smile that I can’t quite decipher the meaning behind. “You’re talking a lot more now than you did before I left, so I’m going to say you’re a lot smarter now too.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not,” he says like it’s obvious. He reaches for my arm to apply the balm, but I don’t let him. “You and I both know you’re a different person now. I’m exactly the same, and you know goddamn well there was no way either of those two fuckers would continue breathing after the shit they did to you.”

“Oh, I knew if you were around, you’d do something about it. But don’t go telling me that you haven’t changed. The Roman I thought I knew wouldn’t have waited three years to step in.”

“I couldn’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “And I wasn’t ready yet.”

“You know what?” I take the balm out of his hand and drop the ropes onto his lap. “I don’t want to hear it.”

He grabs my hand when I sidestep him. “Bella, wait.”

“What?” I snap.

He digs into his pocket and drops my inhaler into my outstretched hand. “Two puffs, morning and night.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. After three years, he still remembers. “I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” He says it playfully, but all I see is red.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” It comes out sharper than I intended, and his flinch makes me feel bad about it. Regretting my words should be the last thing I do after what he put me through, but I’ve always hated seeing Roman hurt or upset. Especially when it’s over something I’ve said or done, when he’s only ever tried doing right by me. At the start, at least.

I can’t let it get to me. I’ve come too far and been through too much to be thrown back into the hole where I couldn’t live without Roman and his approval. Three years without him, and I’m physically better than ever. My mental health is another question.

This time, when I pull away, he lets me take a couple of steps. “Bella—"

I spin on my heel. “What now—"

His arms close in around me before I have a chance to jump back, fingers threading into my hair and face nuzzling into the crook of my neck. I go stock still, engulfed in the smell of iron. What the hell am I meant to do, pat his back? Tell him it’s alright? Knee him?

I should be doing the latter, but it’s taking every ounce of strength not to dissolve into his hold and hug him back. I know that if he keeps holding me, the ugly tears will come back.

“I’m so fucking sorry for hurting you. It was never what I intended. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Sincerity oozes from every word, and I’m not sure if I’m a fool for believing him.

Silence blankets us as the seconds tick on, his warmth seeping into my very core. There’s more to the touch than just a reprieve from the cold; it’s every night we spent together, curling beneath the covers, watching random videos, leaning on his shoulder as he draws while I read to him, and cuddling up to him as he talks about everything and nothing.

It feels like everything I lost three years ago that I never thought I would get back. I’m angry at him for ruining all of it, and I’m angry at myself for wishing we could go back to the way we were. But I’m not that girl anymore, and I never will be again. He made sure of that.

I let myself enjoy his hold for one more second, then I take a step back.

“I need to shower.” What I’m actually saying is I need to feel warmth that isn’t coming from him. I’m also hoping that he has plumbing set up so I don’t need to take a bath in a stream or something.

“Your stuff’s in our room.”

My stuff? What stuff?

Wait. Our room?

I walk faster, deciding that investigating is more important.

The room in question is nothing like the rest of the house. Where the lounge was barebones, this place is covered in drawings. Some are by him. Some by me. Some of me. The dates on his drawings of me span the last five years. He has too much pride in his drawings to write the wrong date.

Mismatching side tables sit on either side of the bed. On the right, closer to the door, an energy drink, knife, bottle of cologne, and random screws and bolts are strewn on the bedside table. On the opposite side, an inhaler, a single unopened box of tissues, my favorite hand cream, and a stack of romance books.

His and hers, just like the two dressers in the room. One with clothes sticking out of drawers and body spray on the top. I move closer to the other, where a mirror, hair ties, and ribbons are stored away in glass containers.