Her eyes widen. “That wasn’t you?”

“I stopped him before he could. Should I keep going?”

She shakes her head, and I watch the heavy rise and fall of her chest.

I continue anyway. “Troy from biology, who kept putting dead animals in your bag. Maddy from Phys-Ed, who would cut your bra straps. The postman who kept pressuring you for your number…” I tilt my head to the side. “How weird that he suddenly wasn’t interested anymore? Last I heard, he’s now mute.” Her eyes widen. “Aaron, who slapped your ass whenever he did his weekly trips to the store—you hadn’t seen him around lately, had you? Pity what happened to his house.” I continue, my gaze locked on hers. “What about that guy who works at the grocery store who likes to corner you? I wonder how he broke both his hands.”

She’s completely frozen, teeth chattering and staring at me with her mouth ajar.

I lean forward until our foreheads are a hair away from touching. “Now riddle me this, Bella; why did all those people stop hurting you?”

She sucks in a sharp breath as her lips quiver and drops her gaze to my feet. “I hate you.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

“That’s fine, Princess. You can spend your life searching for a reason to hate me, but the truth is, you hate that you can’t live without me. And you know what? I would rather die knowing you wish I were dead than for you to feel nothing toward me at all.” I tip her chin to get her to look up at me. “Maybe I haven’t made this clear: You have never been just a phase to me; you’ve always been the whole picture. Without you, I am incomplete.”

“But your heart is already full,” she whispers, searching my eyes for something I can’t see. “My leaving won’t change that.”

Wiping away her tears, I kiss her cheek. “My heart has only ever belonged to you, little Bella. You. Are. It.”

“What if…” She wets her lips. “What if something happens to me again? We’ll be spending the rest of our lives running from them.”

“It won’t,” I promise. “I’m going straight.”

“But… you want to get back at Vargas?” Her voice breaks as she talks.

“What happened once Damien dropped off the envelope?”

Bella chews the inside of her cheek. “We left.”

“That’s right. You and me, we drove off and got far away from Chicago. Far away from Vargas and Damien.” I cup her cheek. “Do you see what I’m trying to tell you?”

More tears spill from her beautiful brown eyes. The cop behind her shifts, crossing his arms as he watches us. If he tries to ruin this moment, I’m going to lose my shit.

I answer for her. “Ask me to give up anything, and I’ll do it for you, Isabella. As long as I have you, I don’t give a shit about the rest.”

Her eyelids fall close as another shiver racks through her tiny body. “Then prove it,” she says as she opens her eyes.

My lips tip up at the corner. “Always. For the rest of my life.”

“What about Jeremy?”

“Damien will keep an eye out. And once things settle in a couple more weeks, we can go see him.”

Taking a deep breath, she nods and doesn’t run when I drop my hold to her elbows. “Where’d you park?”

Bella’s coming with me willingly.

Bella trusts me to keep her safe.

Bella wants to be with me.

“On the road.”

She sniffles, wipes away her tears, and starts moving in the direction that I came.

“Hey, no, get your ass back here.”

“What?” she frowns, looking back at me.

“I’m mad at you, too.”

Her eyebrows hike up her forehead. “Excuse me?”

“It’s cold.” I pull her hood over her head, button up her jacket, and wrap her scarf around her properly, all while she gawks at me. “And for God’s sake, Bella, if you’re going to run, at least take some money and the IDs with you. This isn’t amateur hour.”

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Chapter 31

ISABELLA

Rough cotton scratches against my cheeks as I turn over in bed. My back hurts. My ass hurts. My goddamn eyes hurt. I’m so sick of sitting in a freaking car.

Even with Roman and I’s fickle truce after he picked me up from the station, things are still tense. I’m not ready to go back to where we were before he went to prison or even before I almost got kidnapped.

But he’s trying to make it up to me; I know he is.

After a lot of arguing last night, he respected my wishes to let me have a bed all to myself. Trying to fall asleep while he watched me from his spot on the chair was unnerving, but I managed to, eventually. Part of me thinks he only agreed to keep his hawk eyes on me to ensure I don’t run again.

I honestly wasn’t sure how I got away yesterday morning. He’s a light sleeper, and he’s become worse since he came back. I guess prison changed him after all.

Peeling my eyelids back, I survey the room, searching for Roman. The bathroom door is open, and all our stuff is still here. He probably went off to get breakfast. I guess he thinks leaving me is a show of trust or something.

But I admit, it’s unlike him to be out of bed before nine-thirty in the morning.

Whatever, he’ll be back whenever he’s back.

Yawning, I rub sleep out of my eyes as I crawl out of bed, ready to use all the hot water. I reach for one of the duffle bags on the floor—they all look the same, so it’s a guessing game to figure out which is mine.

Kneeling on the floor, I stretch and click out my rigid joints before unzipping the bag to get a change of clothes. Various shades of dark clothes spill out of the bag as I search for a pair of underwear and a fresh shirt before I realize that I’m looking through Roman’s bag.

Just as I’m about to place the contents back in, my fingers wrap around something solid. Frowning, I pull it out and inspect the stack of envelopes tied together by rubber bands. Needles prickle my throat as nervousness fills my body. It’s addressed to me.

Tentatively, I remove the bands and pick up the first letter, seeing it ripped open already. Right in the corner is a stamp: UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY. Every single letter has the same return and sending address.

My heart slams against my chest, unsure if I should pull it out. Why does Roman have this? Why is it addressed to me? Who opened it?

I glance around as if he might have materialized out of thin air to answer my questions, but it’s just me and the stack of letters calling my name.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pick up the first envelope and unfold the letter, reading the scratchy handwriting.

Dear Isabella,

What’s up Princess,

Ignore the first line. I didn’t realize how hard it was to figure out how to start a letter. Shit’s too formal. I should warn you that this is the first time I’ve written without auto-correct in over a year so if you see any spelling mistakes, no, you didn’t.

And ignore the shitty handwriting because if you didn’t know, I got shot (like, literally, with an actual gun and bullet). Don’t freak out though, I’m alright. Now. I wasn’t for half a second there. I had a half decent doctor and a couple decent nurses. And don’t get jealous, I’ve been waiting on you to give me a sponge bath (I didn’t realize how much I used the winky face emoji until now).

Anyways, you’ve probably been wondering where I’ve been (and I refuse to believe that you know where I am but you’re intentionally ignoring me). Just know that I haven’t left you, and I’ll be back to being your loyal bodyguard/ man-servant/ chef/ hair stylist/ guinea pig/ art supply dealer/ soulmate/ human heater/ sexy taxi driver in three years.