Try To Rip My Hand Out Of His Grip
1655 Words
I don’t know what to say to that.
“You don’t like me,” I say. The words come out slowly.
He shrugs.
“Like, I hate you, that’s all. Sometimes I can’t stand the sight of you. And other days, you’re the thing I crave most.”
Excuse me, what? Did he just say he craves me?
I have no idea where those words came from. But I think I’ve had enough.
I get to my feet, ready to run, to run from whatever the hell this is.
“Wait,” Roman says. Very slowly, I look up at him. “Don’t go.” Another statement that makes no sense.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you make me feel something. I don’t feel anything right now, little wolf.”
I study him, noting the look in his eyes, the circles under them. I sigh softly.
“I think you should go to sleep,” I finally say.
“Trust me, I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Of course you can. All you have to do is lie down on the bed and close your eyes. Even someone like you can do simple human things.”
I move forward, placing my hand on his shoulder to lift him. His skin is a burning furnace. But I don't pull away, even though the contact makes electricity pulse under my skin.
“Come on, Roman. Just go to sleep, you’ve had enough to drink. I guarantee the bar will still be here when you wake up.”
He doesn’t move. His expression is thoughtful.
“You know you’re terrible at comforting people.”
“Yeah, thanks, I took note,” I say, rolling my eyes.
To his feet. I lead him out of the bar and into the bedroom. I’ve never been inside his room before. I was always afraid that lightning would strike me the moment I stepped through the door.
But today, I’m taking a step inside. Roman stands a little unsteadily on his feet. My arm is still wrapped around him as I lead him to the bed.
I take in his room, from the deep red and gold of the bed and walls to the wooden floors, large windows, and dark curtains. There’s a flat-screen TV on the wall, and a bookcase full of books in the far corner of the room. I know it’s not just decoration. Roman’s favorite hobby, besides recreational murder, is reading.
Very slowly, I lower him onto the bed. I know he’s not drunk; I’ve seen the man drink an entire bottle of whiskey with no effect. He’s only had a few glasses tonight. But he seems tired.
As soon as I lay him down on the bed, his hand comes up to cover his face, covering his eyes. I look at him for a second. He’s still in his mourning clothes.
“Roman,” I say quietly. “You need to take off your suit.”
His lips curl into a smirk.
“If you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask.”
“Of course you would have said that. Don’t worry, honey, I’m not interested in seeing you naked,” I say with a smile.
“Really?” he drawls.
His hand slides down his face, and when I look into his eyes, they sparkle with challenge. He sits up on the bed, his hand sliding down his jacket. He takes it off, and I enjoy the sight of his broad shoulders and the way the shirt clings to his muscular arms.
His eyes are still on mine as he begins to unbutton his shirt. He starts at the top, taking his time. The buttons come undone one by one until his chest is exposed.
My mouth goes dry. Tattoos have always been my weakness. And unfortunately, Roman's chest is covered in them. It's not like I didn't know he had them.
My brother once told me that Roman gets a tattoo every year, starting with his sixteenth birthday, to commemorate that day. I've just never seen them. The suffocating suits he wears hide what's underneath.
Roman has always been dangerous. Now he's dangerous and sexy. It's annoying. My hand itches to reach out and touch them. Luckily, I'm not that weak.
My eyes slide over the tattoos. He has Maria's name, and Rosalia's too. He has wings on one side of his chest, and other things I don't understand. Drawings, phrases in another language. Instead of asking him, I grit my teeth and look away.
“I’m leaving now. Goodnight, Roman,” I tell him.
He reaches out before I can blink, and his hand tightens on my wrist. I gasp as he pulls me onto the bed.
“What the hell are you playing?” I ask, surprised, pushing him in the chest.
“Don’t go,” he commands.
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says, taking a deep breath. For a moment, I think he’s about to say something sincere, but of course, he doesn’t. “I said so.”
I raise an eyebrow, giving him a deadpan look.
“Because you said so?”
I repeat, mockingly.
“What are you, four? Let me go.”
I try to rip my hand out of his grip, but my efforts are useless.
“Roman, let me go!” I scream.
“Just stay still for a moment,” he says quietly.
I pause, trying to get away from him. His eyes are boiling. He burns me hot and cold so quickly. Like I said, psychopath.
He's so close I can smell the faint, delicious scent of his cologne. I swallow, the nerves building inside me.
"Roman, I..."
Whatever I want to say is cut off when he places his hand on my neck. The pressure is light, teasing. Like a puppet, I'm pulled closer to him.
"Elena," he says quietly, his dark blue eyes fixed on me.
"Yes?" My voice sounds hoarse and wrong.
"I can see that look in your eyes. How bad do you want me to f**k you right now?"
And just like that, the moment is shattered. My cheeks heat up as I push him in the chest. He lets go of my hand with a laugh, and I stand up immediately.
“I would never ask you to do that,” I hiss.
The annoying thing is that for a second, I imagined what it would be like to be with him. It wasn’t the first time I’d had those thoughts about him. Twelve-year-old me had a crush on Roman. But it was a stupid schoolgirl crush. I know who he is now.
And whoever he is, he’s a damn handsome man whom I’m trying hard not to fall in love with right now… dammit.
“This looks like another challenge, wolf cub,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
I keep my eyes on his face, not letting them slide over his muscles.
That tattooed chest. At least he looks like he’s in a much better mood. A win is a win. Mission accomplished. He’s gone back to being an ass.
“You know how much I hate to lose,” he drawls.
I lean forward, making sure he’s looking me straight in the eye.
“As for me, Roman,” I pause for dramatic effect. “Trust me, you lose every time.”
He smirks.
“We’ll see.”
***
“It’s eleven o’clock, Elena. Where the hell have you been?” my brother demands as soon as I appear in the doorway of our kitchen.
There’s a bowl of ice cream in front of him. Mint chocolate chip, it’s disgusting. He takes a big spoonful, looking at me. I roll my eyes.
“Stop this s**t, Tony. Everywhere I go, I have a human locator,” I say, sitting up, referring to Carlos, who doubles as my driver and bodyguard when I’m in New York. “You know exactly where I’ve been.”
I’m tired after my weird conversation with Roman. I was hoping I’d be able to get home and sneak into my room for a good night’s sleep, but no such luck.
“Why did you spend so much time at the base?” he asks.
“I was comforting Rose,” I lie. I doubt he’d be happy to hear that I was with his best friend. For some reason, he doesn’t trust me with Roman.
“Um, how is she holding up?”
“As well as she can, considering,” I shrug.
He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. My older brother is six feet tall, with lean muscles and brown eyes. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been told over the years that he’s attractive.
I think if I looked at it from a perspective outside of my siblings, I’d agree. But I would never admit it to him. The man has an ego the size of Texas.
Tony is brash, cocky, and prone to fights. But he also has the biggest heart, even if he tends to hide it.
“I thought you were going to get drunk somewhere,” I say, taking his bowl of ice cream.
Just because I hate that s**t doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy taking it away from him. Unfortunately, he pushes it away from me, narrowing his eyes in warning.
“I would have, but Roma kicked us out, and Mikey’s no fun,” he pouts. “He’s upstairs, sleeping.”
I smile. Of the three, Michael is probably my favorite. He doesn't talk much and can usually be found hunched over his computer. I'm pretty sure he's a hacker. He has a secret room in the De Luca house filled with gadgets. I stumbled upon it once, but I've never admitted it.
- Writer
