Page 47 of From Rome, With Hate

“Do you really hate me so much that you’re refusing my help?” He frowns at me.

I hiss between clenched teeth, the burning sensation in my calf and shin spreading up my leg. I’m looking at my husband, knowing I’ve experienced far worse pain than the kind I’m in now. “Yes.”

“Let me help you.” There’s a fire in his eyes that rocks me to my core. I search his face, trying to sort through my feelings.

This entire walk has been a disaster. I told myself I needed the air and silence to gather my thoughts. I was frustrated when he said he was going to come with me, but I didn’t argue. I believed him when he said it could be dangerous, and, admittedly, it was me who broke my vow of silence. I opened the door for him to ask questions and, as usual, it’s blown up in my face. I can’t be around Rome without old feelings coming to the surface in no time at all.

“Fine.” I sit back on the heels of my palms, watching him with a pinched expression. I’m fully prepared for it to hurt like a fucking bitch when he releases my foot.

“Hang on. This part might hurt. Try bending your foot as I pull it out.”

“Okay.” I nod, bracing myself for the pain.

After wrapping one hand around my calf and the other on the lower half of my shin, he slowly pulls on my leg. I squeeze my eyes shut, bending my foot as he guides it through the hole. I can’t help it—I cry out, the searing pain shooting up my leg to my waist. I’m panting, taking a second to regain my bearings.

“Oh, shit,” Rome mutters, causing me to crack my eyes open.

Blood streams down my leg to my foot; my pant leg destroyed from the splintered wood. The rain mixes with the crimson liquid as it pours down my skin and onto the bridge.

“Hang on.” Rome removes the pistol he brought with him from his waistband and sets it down beside him before he begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to stop the bleeding.” He peels his shirt off his back and slips his arms out of the sleeves. A few seconds later, he wraps it around my leg, over the wounds.

I can’t tear my gaze from his chest as he works to cover my leg. Tears line my eyes as I study the splattering of ink on hisskin. Other than the bird tattoo on his neck, I haven’t seen any of these.

I’m staring at the rosebud stretching across his ribs, when I’m met with an onslaught of memories. An ache churns in my stomach, followed by a hunger I’ve been struggling to deny. I’m struggling to breathe again. Rome is touching me, making it impossible to play the role I’ve played for the last ten years.

“You didn’t need to do that.” I clear my throat, breaking the silence between us.

My words force him to stop what he’s doing. He turns his face to look up at me, on his knees beside me.

“I’m capable of taking care of myself when I’m hurt.” I force the words out, knowing this is the only way to survive by hating Rome and keeping him at a distance. It’s the only way to prevent myself from being dragged back down to Hell, kicking and screaming.

He doesn’t let me off the hook easily this time, though. I’ve pushed him too far. His eyes darken, filling with an intensity that brings heat between my thighs. His lips thin in anger as he huffs a frustrated breath through his nose.

“Fuck, Lark.” He growls. “Why are you so goddamn stubborn?”

“I’m the only one I can count on. I’m the only one who knows my secrets and cares about what I’ve lost,” I say, pushing up off my hands.

He flinches as though I’ve slapped him. “You think I haven’t suffered from what we lost, too?”

“You haven’t proven to me otherwise.”

“With the way you always push me away or keep me at a distance, it’s no wonder you have no fucking clue.”

“Pushing you away is the only way I come out of thisalive.”

“Come out of what alive?”

“Being around you. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice. Feeling your touch. I can’t fucking stand it. It makes me so fucking angry, I honestly believe I’ve been sentenced to purgatory for all eternity.”

“How do you think I’ve felt over the years?” he asks, his hand sliding up my injured leg. “Watching other men touch you. Knowing other men are fucking you. Fuckingmysecretwife.” His hand glides across my wet thigh. Fuck, my entire body is soaking wet, and it isn’t just from the rain.

The mood has shifted from sharp, pointed anger between us to some sort of ravenous, heated bitterness. It’s like we want to punish each other for all the feelings we’ve bottled up over the years. My thighs clench at the thought of how it felt to have his skilled tongue assaulting my clit, and my heart races at the memory of the taste of his mouth.

“Is that all I am to you? A possession? A title?” I ask as his fingers skate over my body effortlessly.