Maybe I deserve all this for being a bystander in countless deaths and beatings. It could be the universe’s way of getting retribution for all the depravity I’ve inadvertently participated in. So maybe I’m not mad at Roman that it happened, but I’m pissed that he could have prevented it, and he didn’t.

After every trauma, I’ve experienced a different reaction. When I found Marcus and Greg, I was shocked about what I saw, but angry that Roman was back. Then, at the Horror House, I was scared and sad, and I only became angry when he started talking. Now? Sure, I’m shocked. Any person would be. But that’s not the emotion pumping through my veins right now. What will I feel the next time Roman puts me in danger? Acceptance?

I’m done. I’m not letting myself get to a point where I’ll feel nothing when a gun is aimed at my head. I can still recall the click of the safety, but in my messed-up reality, my brain has already decided that the sound is something to expect in my everyday life. I always thought Roman’s recklessness would get him killed, but I was wrong; it’ll get me killed.

“Bella, talk to me.”

By my count, this is the third time he’s said those four words in the past five minutes.

He also rotates between a couple of other sentences.

I’m so sorry, Bella.

This is the last time, Bella. I promise nothing like this will ever happen again.

Bella, baby, please speak to me.

I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, Bella.

I relented and helped him bandage the cut on his arm that probably needs stitches. But other than that, I’ve refused to even look in his general direction. Instead, my entire body is angled outward, and my lips are sealed shut. My heartbeat is still thundering, the blood in my ears still roaring, and my lungs are still squeezing and burning for oxygen.

The pain in my cheek isn’t improving, and I can already feel a whole bunch of nasty bruises forming on my face and body. I’m convinced that the cut on my cheek will open back up if I look at him, and I’ll bleed all over him and his goddamn clothes.

But, of course, he came to save me, like always, with his fists and a damn inhaler.

I’ve slapped Roman’s hand away every time it comes near me, but my hand hurts from hitting the shit out of my abductor, and I think I pulled several muscles trying to get away from him. But ultimately, Roman’s hands still ended up on me, and, if I’m being honest with myself, they’re the only thing stopping me from bawling my eyes out.

Before Roman went to prison, I—the Isabella from before—probably would have found a corner to cry in and clung onto Mickey like a lifeboat on a sinking ship. She was a scared, traumatized, and weak little girl.

I used to only feel fear when Marcus looked at me in the leering way he did. I would toe the line of hyperventilating when I’d get groped or hit on by strangers. The fear was and is alive and well. But my terror made friends with rage, which makes a toxic combination.

I’m still weak; I admit that. If it weren’t for the support his hands are bringing me, my head would be between my knees as I struggle for breath as the shock and rage takes over. If Roman hadn’t found me when he did, who knows what sort of nightmare I would be experiencing. But the fact remains, he is the whole reason something happened to me.

I wouldn’t need a lifeboat if he hadn’t set the ship on fire.

The difference between directing my anger at him or having Mickey as a lifeboat is that one has the paddles in my hand, and the other has them placed in someone else’s, someone who might jump overboard at any second. Paddling will wear me out, but at least I’ll have control and can rely on myself.

We pull up in front of our motel room, and he locks the doors when my finger touches the handle.

“Let me out, Roman,” I grit out.

I need to wash away the feel of that man’s hands on me and all the dried blood beneath my nails, crusting on my hands and face. Then, I’m going to scream into a pillow while letting it soak up all my tears.

And after that…

Well, I need to put my safety first.

“Talk to me.”

Silence.

“Fine, we can stay here all night, then.” I hear him settle into his seat. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t want your help,” I snap.

So much for staying silent.

“You’re right. That was the wrong choice of words. I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of my shit; it never should have happened. I’m going to make it right,” he promises.

I shake my head. “There’s nothing you can do to make it right. It happened. It’s done.”

“Look at me, Bella.”

“No.” His hands move, and I quickly add, “If I look at you, I’ll remember what his hands felt like around my neck and what his body felt like against my back. So, no, Roman, I won’t look at you right now.”

Roman promised nothing would happen to me, and I promised I wouldn’t leave Damien’s side or talk to strangers. I guess we’re both liars.

The air turns cloying. My words will cut him. And he has a point. He can’t do anything unless I talk. Actually, now that I think about it, I do have things to say. So here we are again: actions meet consequences.

I look him in the eye, and just like I thought, I’m picturing what it felt like to scream Roman’s name through a ratty gag. “It’s my fault I didn’t stay with Damien. But it’s your fault I was there to begin with. You put me in danger. Not me.”

The muscles in his jaw feather. “He needs to pay for what he did.”

Too many people fall under the word he. Vargas, Damien, Rico, the asshole who took me. Roman will go on a warpath with no end in sight, and I don’t plan on being a casualty of it.

“And so will you.”

His brows dip. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, if you go after him, I’m gone. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never get me back. You can tie me up, but you’ll never have me. I’ll never be yours.”

“This is the underground world, Isabella. Each person you meet is more fucked up than the last.”

I flinch. Hearing him say it makes those what-ifs bubble back up like molten lava. “Do you honestly think I don’t know that? When he dragged me out of the bathroom, I knew they could pass me around to every single one of his men, and there would be nothing I could do about it. I knew they could torture me the same way you tortured Marcus and Greg. And I was terrified.”

His lips tighten as he swallows roughly. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

This again? “You keep saying that. Stop being so delusional.” I flail my bloody hands and point a finger at him. “You can’t do shit. Do you remember what you told me last night?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “That no one would lay a hand on me because you’ll keep me safe. Look at me, Roman. Does it look like nothing happened? Do I look okay to you? No, absolutely fucking not, Roman.”

“I thought you’d run.”

I stiffen. “Excuse me?” I expected him to give me a grocery list of excuses, or a thousand and one different ways about how sorry he is or how he thinks he’ll make it up to me. Not this.

His throat bobs. “I didn’t want to leave you in the motel because I thought you’d run.”

I stare at his profile for a long moment. The only sound coming from the harsh rise and fall of our breaths. “So, you would rather put me in danger and risk losing me for good?” I can’t be bothered screaming anymore.

He turns to me, and his expression is a twisted mix of guilt and anguish. It’s wrong, but I want to kiss it away and make it so that only one of us has to feel the hurt. But I’m not going to be that for him right now.

“I didn’t think they were a real threat.” He twists his hands, rubbing his fingers and shaking his leg. “The worst thing they did in prison was try to trip me up.”