Page 43 of Revenge Saints
Roman’s question slides down the stairs, thick with amusement. He lounges there like a king watching a servant fumble a leash, shaking his head at me.
Condescending jerk.
“He’s being difficult,” I reply, eyes on him. “But I’ll get through to him.”
Either that or Roman takes care of him, but it would be ashame.
I knew he had feelings for Aspen. Him and Knox both. But I didn’t realize how deep that bond ran. How much she’s inside them. Still… that’s leverage. If she’s their weakness, I’ll use it.
Roman rises, moving with a lazy, predatory swagger in every step. His smirk is sharp and smug.
“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair as he comes toward me. “I know Dante. He’s not built to break. He’s built to fight. You won’t turn him.”
He’s almost as tall as Dante. A little leaner and older. But when he touches me?
Electric. Wild. Like fire under my skin.
He’s in dark cargo pants and that black shirt he wears like a weapon. My breath catches when his hand wraps around my throat.
“Maybe if you fuck him,” he whispers, thick with filth.
I shake my head, jaw tight. “That won’t work. Not yet.”
He laughs, a low, cruel sound that vibrates through his chest.
“That Aspen girl must have a magic pussy,” he says with a grin. “Got Dante and Knox wrapped around her like fucking toys.”
I feel the sting in that comment, but I don’t show it. I hold still, my breath steady.
“They like them innocent,” I murmur. “Sweet but with fire. Like she doesn’t know what she’s worth yet.”
He steps back just enough to study me.
“Will she be a problem?” His fingers tighten around my neck, and I try to pull his hand away, but he doesn’t let go.
“No,” I snap. “She won’t.”
He doesn’t blink. Just keeps staring, waiting for the lie to crack.
“And you remember our deal,” I hiss. “You promised she wouldn’t be touched. Not by you. Not your men.”
His grip tightens again. My throat burns.
“I promised,” he says coolly, “as long as she follows the rules.”
“She will!” I gasp.
She has to, but not by his rules. She has to follow my own.
His gaze doesn’t soften, just lingers.
Then his hand drops to my leggings, thumb brushing the waistband.
“I can finally fuck you without hiding,” he growls, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a show of power. There’s no warmth, no romance, just possession. Raw, punishing, addictive.
Ethan was possessive.
