ROMAN'S P. O. V
At first, it was rage.
I had wanted to kill something. Someone. I barked out orders, stormed into the staff quarters, and started a ruckus. I stayed up at night at my gym, pouring my rage into the punching bag until I tore it. I had smashed my fist into a wall and left my knuckles bleeding, I would have set the world ablaze if it could bring her back to me.
But that anger didn't last; It turned into something else. Regret, maybe. Grief? Seems like it. Whatever it was, it was a bone-deep ache that pressed me like a titanic weight. I could hardly breathe with it. It killed me with the indispensable need to feel her near me again, even if she won't speak to me, even if she won't smile my way, just knowing that she's here and knowing that she's safe, just breathing in the s
