Page 28 of Precious Legacy

Newsflash, Alanis.None of what you’re doing right now is normal.

“Issues with the Russians,” Roman supplies.

“What are you going to do about them?”

He shrugs his response, wrapping his arm tighter around my waist. “I’ll figure something out.”

My head rests above the steady beat of his heart, and for a brief moment, I find myself wondering if his broke the same way mine did when I never answered his calls. Did he even question why?Doubtful.He left without a second glance in my direction. He might have had obligations to his family, but where were his loyalties to me?

We’ve fallen so easily into a trap of hating and fucking that I wonder if this should mean more to me than it does; to him, as well. It’s a stupid thought, a ridiculous thought that I have no business exploring. Yet I do, and I hate where that takes me.

I push off him and sit upright just to catch my shuddering breath. I can’t afford to have thoughts like those. I can’t afford to have wandering feelings. I need to stick to my guns because going back to how we were when we were eighteen isn’t an option anymore. Those days have long gone, drowning in the darkness where my past lies.

“You know you’re gonna have to tell everyone, right?”

My attention snaps to him. “I’m well aware.”

“Just saying,” he replies nonchalantly, folding his arms beneath his head. His muscles thicken like cords, his tattoos stretching over the expanse of skin. “If you’re really doing this?—”

“I am,” I bite back, irritation coursing through my veins. I push up off the bed to grab a hoodie from my closet. The impending argument isn’t something I want to have while naked. “And you said you wouldn’t tell anyone!”

“Whoa!” Roman jumps off the bed and paces towards me. “I’m not going to tell anyone, Presh.” He reaches for my cheek, but I shove him away. I need to create as much space between us as possible. I said this couldn’t happen again, and I’m letting my traitorous heart decide for me instead of listening to the warning in my head.

“Good,” I deride. “Then we’re done here.”

“What?” Roman’s bright blue eyes blow wide, his mouth gaping. “Alanis, I?—”

“Got what you wanted,” I sneer. “Though blackmailing me to sleep with you is a little low, even for you, don’t you think?”

His jaw ticks over with restrained rage.Shame, I’d love to see how angry Roman can get when his buttons are pushed the right way.

“Then again, I shouldn’t put anything past you. You’ll lie about anything just to get what you want.”

“Alanis,” he growls, but stops himself. For just a second, I see his features shift from fury to realization. Something must have switched in his brain, because he steps forward, running his hand through his hair and continuing to stalk me, even when my back hits my bedroom wall. “Is that what this is about?”

I gulp, unable to keep my eyes off the way the muscles around his throat strain angrily. I don’t answer. I can’t because I’m too scared that the words will choke me.

Roman takes a step back and I finally feel like I can breathe a little. Storming over to the bedside table, he grabs his keys and tugs something off it. He marches back towards me, shoving something in my hand. “Just because I left, doesn’t mean I never cared.”

I look down at my hand, clutching the item between shaky fingers. The keyring clinks with every movement, and it’s not just any keyring. It’s a silver ferris wheel with a photo attached—one of me and Roman. We can’t be more than seventeen inthe picture, wide grins full of unfiltered happiness stretching our faces. While I beam at the camera, Roman’s oceanic gaze is locked on me, small creases pinching either side of his eyes. It’s a stupid picture taken in a photo booth at Chelsea Pier.

Fuck.

My heart aches, the pounding of guilt and resentment at war against one another. My head throbs as confusion sets in, because I know what happened five years ago; I was there. I heard every heartfelt word he uttered to me, I felt every emotion he poured into our kiss, and every crack that tore my heart open when he left.

I must be staring at the keyring for longer than I realize, because when I look up, Roman is fully dressed and pulling on his jacket. He bypasses me as he heads toward the bedroom door, stopping in the doorway, refusing to look at me.

“For the record, this isn’t me walking away.”

And then he’s gone. The only evidence that he was ever here sits in the palm of my hand while the ache in my chest picks open at old scars.

My apartment door slams, and that’s when it hurts the most because I’m utterly and heartbreakingly alone, staring at a memory I’d long forgotten about.

TWELVE

Ilook out over the mezzanine, a large platform that extends out over the floor below. Ahead of me, workers are putting the stage together for fight night. A huge boxing ring sits central, surrounded by benches and chairs with plenty of standing room. I shift with nervous energy. Watching the place come together in such a small amount of time has me itching with anticipation. All that’s left to do is stock the bars we’ve installed on either side of the building, allowing a steady flow of foot traffic that won’t impede the fights.

We’ve already reached capacity with the guest list. I’m not surprised that everyone is thirsty for action. The Russians created a gap in the market when they decided to host one fight a week. Then again, the fact they’re allowing people to fight to the death is what sells their nights. I, on the other hand, plan to host three fights each night, and the losers will walk out of here rather than leaving in a body bag.

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