Roman (Raleigh Raptors 2)

Why though? We had slept in the same bed millions of times since we were kids.

“You snore,” he said, a light tease in his dark eyes.

“I do not snore!” I grabbed a pillow and chucked it at him.

He caught it without even blinking. Damn those Raptor reflexes. His biceps strained against the simple black T-shirt he wore, his dark skin smooth over the corded muscle. A pair of athletic shorts clung to his hips, his feet bare, and his black hair was still ruffled from sleep.

The warmth of his body next to mine, his steady breathing, his smell—each had offered me all the comforts of home, of safety, when I’d needed it most.

I had the urge to reach for the locket underneath my pillow, despite knowing it wasn’t there. Knowing I hadn’t been able to sleep with it in over three years. Instead, I’d had to hide it in a shoebox…

How the hell would I get that box back—

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the opened door behind him. “I made you breakfast.”

I perked up at that, and my brows raised as the smell filtered in from the kitchen. “You didn’t!” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, only then realizing I wore nothing but one of his Raptors T-shirts and a pair of his boxers that weren’t visible beneath the shirt’s hem.

Because you left that house with nothing.

I’d been terrified. There hadn’t been time to grab anything beyond my purse.

My stomach twisted as I glanced down at the attire.

Your body isn’t meant for shorts. Or skirts. Anything above the knee. No one wants to see those thick thighs but me and I only want to see them when you’re riding my dick.

Rick’s voice echoed in my head, and the urge to cover my body hit me like a blow to the chest.

“Teagan.” Roman used my full name, snapping my attention back to him. “Food. Now.”

My feet moved on their own at the desperation in his tone, and I followed him into his kitchen. I settled in one of his leather barstools at his granite kitchen island, my mouth watering as the smell of fried tortillas and tomatoes filled the air.

Roman slid a wide, shallow bowl before me, and I stared down at the gorgeous contents.

“You made Chilaquiles,” I said, my throat clogging with emotion.

“They’re your favorite.” He shrugged as he sat across from me, digging into a bowl of his own.

Walter padded across the kitchen, plopping his big head right in my lap. I smoothed my hand over his head a few times before returning focus to my breakfast.

I scooped up my fork and slid the tines into the perfectly fried egg perched atop the crisp tortilla strips garnished with avocado, tomato, and red sauce. I slid the bite into my mouth and moaned as the flavors of my childhood hit my tongue.

“Omigod,” I said after swallowing. “These are just like your Abuela’s.” I shook my head. “I haven’t had them since…” my voice trailed off, my mind trying to recall the last time I’d seen her.

“The Padilla family reunion,” Roman answered for me. “Three years ago. The last time you were allowed—” he cleared his throat, stabbing the contents in his bowl a bit harder than necessary. “The last time you were able to make it.”

My heart sank to the bottom of my stomach.

Allowed.

The word seemed foreign when I applied it to my past, yet there wasn’t a better way to describe it.

How had I never seen it before? How had Rick managed to make me believe that his requests were actual requests? That his ideas were mine? That his needs were the most important—

“You need to talk to me now,” Roman said, his voice soft, kind.

I took a few more bites, savoring the flavors that wrapped around my soul like a warm blanket. God, what would I have done if I didn’t have him? Where would I have gone?

The staggering emptiness on my list of available allies was so small it threatened to crack my already shattered heart. Maybe Savannah’s or Liberty’s, but the first would’ve likely been out partying with her college friends, and the later had a four-month old baby at home. I wouldn’t have wanted to bother them. And in all reality? The only instinct I had last night was to find somewhere safe.

Roman had always been my safe space. Ever since he’d rescued six-year-old me from a water moccasin during our school field trip to the lake—he’d been that safe haven for me.

“Please, T,” he said when I hadn’t answered. “Just tell me what happened. What led to all of that?”

My mind whirled, presenting me with an overwhelming amount of evidence—thousands of tiny moments that I’d overlooked or blatantly ignored for fear of making things worse. I couldn’t process the information quickly enough. Couldn’t resolve those memories with what I’d felt in the moment. It was like a thick film had coated my eyes, and just now, today, I could see clearly.