Breaking Bro Code

Chapter 4

The silence of the penthouse was different in the morning. It wasn't the sterile, cold quiet of the night before, but a soft, humming stillness that seemed to vibrate with the memory of Roman’s presence. I woke up in the guest suite—a room that was probably nicer than any hotel I’d ever stayed in—wrapped in high-thread-count sheets that still held a faint, lingering scent of him.

The sting of yesterday’s betrayal was still there, a dull ache in the center of my chest, but it felt distant now, filtered through the adrenaline of the night. I sat up, pushing my hair out of my face, and stared at the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city was already moving, millions of people going about their lives, while I was tucked away in a glass fortress with the most dangerous, magnetic man in the NFL.

I climbed out of bed, realizing I had nothing to wear but the clothes I’d arrived in—the ruined dress from the night I never wanted to think about again. I pulled it on, the black lace feeling heavy and wrong in the daylight, and stepped out into the main living area.

The kitchen was a monochromatic masterpiece of marble and steel. And there he was.

Roman was standing at the oversized island, a cup of black coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. He had clearly just finished a workout; his dark hair was damp at the ends, sticking up in places that made him look younger, more raw. He was wearing nothing but a pair of charcoal-grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp, defined V of his lower abs and the dusting of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband.

He was all muscle and corded tension, his back a map of power as he shifted his weight.

I froze at the entrance, my breath hitching in my throat. He didn't turn around, but he stopped scrolling through his phone. He knew I was there. He’d known the second I moved.

"Coffee's fresh," he said, his voice husky with sleep. He finally turned, his eyes drifting over me with a predatory intensity that made my knees feel like water. The way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the room that mattered—was more intoxicating than any drink I’d had last night.

I walked toward the counter, trying to keep my movements steady, but the air between us felt thick, charged with static. "Thanks," I said, reaching for the carafe on the marble island.

As I leaned in to pour, my foot caught on the edge of the rug. I stumbled forward, the ceramic mug clattering as it hit the counter. Before I could even brace for the impact, Roman was there.

He moved with the speed of a professional athlete, his hands catching me by the hips, his grip firm and anchoring. He pulled me flush against his hard, warm body, pinning me against the cool marble of the counter.

My breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound that seemed to echo in the quiet space. He didn't let me go. He held me there, his hand sliding dangerously low on my hip, his thumb pressing into the soft skin just above the hem of my dress, testing the tension of my muscles.

"Careful," he murmured, his face inches from mine. His eyes were dark, almost black, and they were fixed on my lips with such intensity that I felt my pulse jump. His other hand moved up, his large fingers tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb brushing over my lower lip.

"I... I'm okay," I managed to stutter, even though my entire body was screaming for him to pull me closer.

"Are you?" He let out a low, dark chuckle, his hand tightening on my hip, pulling me up so that I was pressed even tighter against him. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the solid wall of his chest, the dangerous, jagged rhythm of his own heart. "Because you're shaking, Allie."

"That’s just the coffee," I lied, my voice breathless.

He didn't buy it. His gaze dropped to my throat, watching as I swallowed hard. "You’ve been through a lot," he said, his voice softening, though his touch remained possessive. "But you’re safe here. I told you that. I meant it."

"I know," I whispered. I tried to pull back, to regain a shred of my independence, but he didn't give an inch. Instead, he leaned in, his nose brushing against mine, his breath warm and scented with coffee and his own natural, earthy musk.

"Stop trying to be independent," he said, his tone shifting into a low, rumbling command. "For once in your life, just let someone take care of you. Let me."

The audacity of it—the sheer, overwhelming protectiveness—sent a jolt of frustration through me. "I don't need a keeper, Roman. I needed a friend, not someone to lock me in a golden cage."

His expression hardened. The softness vanished, replaced by that dangerous, unyielding intensity that made him a star on the field. He gripped my waist, pulling me so close that there wasn't a breath of air between us.

"You think this is a cage?" he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. He leaned in, his lips hovering mere millimeters from mine, the friction of our bodies sending heat rippling through me. "If you wanted to leave, Allie, you would have walked out the front door the second you woke up."

He held my gaze, his eyes daring me to challenge him. The challenge hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. He was right, and we both knew it. I hadn't moved because the idea of walking out that door, back into the world where Liam existed, felt impossible.

"Exactly," he murmured, sensing my defeat. His thumb brushed my hip once more, a possessive, territorial stroke, before he finally released me, stepping back and putting the marble counter back between us.

He turned away, picking up his coffee, his muscles rippling under his skin as he moved. But the tension didn't leave the room. It just hung there, thicker than before, a constant, low-level burn that I knew was only going to get hotter.