Roman (Raleigh Raptors 2)

Not my shampoo.

Roman’s.

I squeezed the woodsy scented stuff into my palm and lathered up my strands, working it harder than necessary.

I didn’t even have my own shampoo.

And a half-hour later, as I toweled off, I realized I didn’t have a hairdryer either.

Or facewash.

Anything.

I wiped the steam from the mirror, looking at myself for the first time. The purple beneath my blue eyes, the bruises on my arms.

I had nothing.

No toiletries, no clothes. I didn’t even own the car I’d driven over here.

My stomach hit the floor as reality dawned on me.

I slipped back into Roman’s T-shirt and shorts, and stormed to the kitchen where I’d left my purse. I fished out my phone, quickly drawing up my banking app.

The world froze as I stared at the number on my account.

Zero.

A wave of nausea rushed over me, and I sank atop the barstool, tears rushing down my cheeks.

Rick had insisted we keep a joint account. I’d thought it was so considerate, too, seeing as he made infinitely more money than I did. But every piece I’d sold brought me that much closer to contributing in a real way. I’d earned a decent income the past year.

And it was gone.

“Teagan?” Roman asked, kneeling before me. “What is it?”

I turned the phone toward him. “He took it.”

“What?” Roman snapped, taking my phone.

“I have nothing,” I said, more to myself than to him. “All that art I sold. Gone. My supplies. He bought. My clothes, my books…” I shook my head. “Any money I earned to get my own place, he took. I have nowhere to go.”

And those things...those material possessions I thought were mine? They weren’t really. They were his. Purchased by him and for his benefit. I hadn’t thought it at the time…

Fuck. I didn’t even want that stuff. I just wanted the one box that meant anything to me, the one I’d brought with me when I’d moved in with him.

Roman sat my phone on the counter, his eyes on mine. “I already told you, you can stay with me,” he said, and the kindness in his voice only made me cry harder. “For however long you need.”

I stood up and hugged him, cried into his chest like I had when we were kids, and my beloved dog had passed. This was a different kind of grief—one where I’d lost a chunk of my life without realizing it. One where I’d downed in a puddle of water a few inches deep, slow and agonizing.

And now that I could breathe again?

It felt like razor blades in my lungs.

Felt like shame and stupidity and fear.

Because I truly had nothing.

I’d allowed him to take everything I had.

Allowed him to shape and mold me into something perfect for him.

Allowed him to slice me into pieces until I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.

And I didn’t have a clue how to put myself back together.

3

Roman

“Good boy,” I told Walt as I filled his bowl with water. We’d just finished a seven-mile run, and the sweat dripping down my chest was starting to chill. The house was a steady seventy-degrees, just the way I liked it, but outside it was a thick, sticky ninety-one.

And it was only eleven.

I’d just grabbed a little hydration and was headed for the shower when Teagan stormed through the kitchen, bearing yet another dozen roses.

She’d been here eighteen days, and this was the eighteenth flower arrangement that the asshole had sent.

“I fucking hate roses, not that you’d ever paid attention, jackass.” She opened the trash can with her foot, then dumped the roses in bloom-first, saving the vase just like she had the previous seventeen and adding it to her growing collection on the far side of the kitchen, along with a few more expensive gifts she hadn’t touched since opening.

“How could he not know that about you?” I questioned.

She spun and gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “How long have you been there?”

My eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just got back from my run.” Damn, she was jumpy. Every time I startled her only reminded me how little I’d seen of her in the past year—and how little of that had been unchaperoned.

Her gaze skimmed over the bare skin of my chest and abs. “Right.” She blinked rapidly, looking away as her cheeks turned pink. “Don’t apologize. It’s your house. I’m the intruder.”

“You’re the guest. There’s a difference.” Hell, I’d put her on the title if it made her feel better. “Now seriously. You dated him for three years. How could he not know that your favorite flowers are lilies? Isn’t that first-year boyfriend material?” I leaned back against the counter and downed some of my recovery drink.

“It was never important enough to make an issue out of it.” She shrugged. “Besides, who complains when their boyfriend brings them roses?”