Page 176 of Filthy Promises

“But you’d use everything else,” I whisper. “Gotcha.”

I open the door, unable to look at him any longer.

“Rowan.” His voice follows me into the hallway. “Please don’t run from me. Not like this. Not now.”

I turn back one last time, taking in the sight of him—still in his towel, hair damp, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him.

“You know what’s funny? I actually do believe you love me.” The tears finally break free, pouring down my cheeks in twin torrents. “But I don’t think you know how to love someone without controlling them.”

His face contorts with something like pain. “Let me fix this.”

“I don’t think you can,” I say softly. “Some things, once broken, can’t be put back together.”

I step into the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby before he can follow me.

As the doors slide closed, I catch one last glimpse of his face—a man who’s lost something he never expected to care about.

Then it disappears behind cold, impersonal chrome.

The elevator descends, and with each floor, the weight in my chest grows heavier. I trusted him. I gave him everything—my body, my heart, my future. I believed we were building something real, something that transcended the darkness of his world.

But it was all a lie. Or at least, it began as one.

Maybe he does love me now. It’s not inconceivable that, somewhere along the way, his surveillance turned to fascination, and fascination to love.

But does that matter?

No. It doesn’t.

You can’t grow a garden if the soil is poison.

51

ROWAN

This motel sucks.

I’ve been staring at the same water stain on the ceiling for three hours now, watching it morph from an amorphous blob into what looks suspiciously like my life crumbling before my eyes.

Metaphors are coming on strong today.

My phone rings for what must be at least the forty-seventh time. I don’t have to look to know it’s Vince. Again.

His texts have evolved from commanding (Call me immediately) to concerned (Where are you?) to something that might almost panic (Please just let me know you’re safe).

I almost feel bad.

Almost.

Then I remember everything.

Turns out I don’t feel bad at all.

I roll onto my side, wincing as my tender breasts press against the mattress. Morning sickness has been replaced with all-day nausea, a cruel reminder that no matter how far I run, I’ll never truly escape Vincent Akopov.

Not with his baby growing inside me.

The thought sends me scrambling for the bathroom again, where I empty the meager contents of my stomach into a toilet that was already gross several hundred occupants ago.

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