Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I’ve heard guys call Weston the “frat dad” of Onyx House, but to me, Roman also has Dad energy. In a more serious way. Like if “Dad” meant badass Russian with big dick energy and ties to dangerous people.
But the moment he hears about Noah ending up in a bad situation, it’s obvious how deeply caring Roman is behind the steely, masculine exterior.
He reaches out to put his arm around Noah, squeezing his shoulder as Noah talks about being held at gunpoint.
For Roman, that’s probably something he’s experienced plenty of times.
But he knows damn well that Noah’s never seen a day of hardship or danger in his entire life.
“Hey. Are you okay?” Roman asks Noah the moment he’s done telling the story. “I am going to handle everything. Everything. I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. These men should never have known the meeting was even happening, and I don’t know how the fuck they figured it out.”
“Why did you send Noah this time?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even. “Why not go yourself?”
Roman gives me a serious look. “I couldn’t. Trust me when I tell you that. But this is not how it was meant to go. It’s impossible, unless one of Maks’ boys is a rat. God, fuck this.”
Roman leans over and pulls Noah into a full hug, and I’m surprised.
It’s the most emotion I’ve seen out of him all week.
I watch Roman’s hand slide over Noah’s upper back, rubbing him there.
When Roman finally stops embracing Noah, I nod toward him. “You two have been close for a while?”
Roman chews his cheek for a moment. “No. Fucking hated this kid, for a while.”
Noah hums. “True. Roman used to despise me. It’s been better since last semester, though.”
“Since Noah quit… all of that nonsense. Fucking and partying and drinking every night. He started taking care of himself.” He looks Noah up and down. “I like him better now.”
Do you like it better because it’s healthier for him?
Or do you just like that he’s more well-behaved?
I can’t remember the last time I ever got territorial with anybody, but Noah is doing strange things to me.
Roman gives me a serious look. “Thank you. If something had happened to Noah I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. You’re a good stepbrother.”
A great one.
So good that he has me as Stepbrother Psychotic in his phone, but still looks at me like he’s begging me to make him come.
Roman turns back to Noah and I watch him put his fingers beneath Noah’s chin, lifting his face up to inspect it.
“You need to go shower,” he says in a low voice. “Do you want me to draw a hot bath? Fuck these assholes who did this to you—”
“I’ll draw him a bath,” I say, standing up. “I was about to go wash this blood off my hand, anyway. Noah, come with me.”
7
Noah
I push my palm up to the tiled wall in the shower and let the hot water wash over me.
I’m so fucked.
So colossally fucked.
Suddenly I feel so alone. When Torin tried to draw a bath for me up here I told him I didn’t need it, that I wanted time to myself, and that I was fine just showering.
I just wanted him gone.
But now that he isn’t here…
I can’t stand this, either.
I fucking hated that he kept nosing into everything tonight, but now I feel worse.
Am I safe here?
Roman says I am, but is it real?
My thoughts are bombarding me again, and if Torin were here, right by my side, I wouldn’t have to worry as much. Like a guard dog. Like something steady, to keep me from panicking.
Should have just told him to shower with me.
Nothing he hasn’t seen before, right?
I shove those thoughts from my mind and try to focus on the water. I’m just not thinking clearly because tonight was a shock.
A tiny rivulet of blood-stained water comes from my ribcage, and I realize it must have gotten on me from the back of Torin’s hand.
I linger in the shower for at least thirty minutes, until I can’t take the heat anymore and I have to go back into the real world.
I head back to my room feeling like a zombie.
I change into grey pants and a white tee, and then as I’m tossing my clothes into the laundry basket, something falls over in my closet, clinking onto the floor.
Oh.
It’s a whiskey bottle, only about a third full.
I must have put it there some night last semester in a drunken haze. I pick it up, feeling the heft of the thick glass bottle in my hand, watching the deep brown liquid slosh inside.
An impulse hits me.
I screw off the top, put the bottle to my lips, and the sharp, oaky scent hits my nostrils.
And just as quickly, a flood of shame hits.