Page 3 of Broken By Silence
They let me ride with him. They shouldn’t have, but something in my face must’ve unnerved them—something raw and wild, the same hollow desperation I saw in Roman’s eyes when he stumbled to my door, soaked in blood like it was his penance.
I don’t let go of his hand the entire ride. It’s slick, trembling, already cooling at the edges, and I hate him for it. I whisper his name like it’s the only thing holding him here, like I can anchor him to thisworld just by speaking it. Over and over—like a fucked up prayer, like a threat.
“You don’t get to leave, Roman.” My voice splinters and cracks, desperate to retreat into the silence that once held me together and kept me whole. “You don’t get to ruin me and then die in my arms like a hero. You’re the devil in my story, and I’m still owed my revenge.”
I lean in closer, clutching his hand tighter—just shy of breaking it. “Ifyou die, I swear to God I’ll hunt your soul down and drag it back to hold hostage in a jar. You don’t get a peaceful eternity.”
His blood is still on my hands, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t even try to wipe it off. I let it dry. Let it stay. A reminder of what he’s done.
The sirens are screaming, but all I hear is his breath—shallow, dragging—like he’s already halfway gone. And still, somehow, the bastard looks peaceful. Like he’s escaping. Like this isfreedomto him.
It makes something ugly crack open in my chest.
“You don’t get to leave me with all this wreckage, Roman. You don’t get to die and let me be the one who stays behind and explains your mess to the world.” My throat burns. “You let him know I was still alive. You ruined everything. Youoweme, you son of a bitch. You owe me a thousand apologies.”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even make a slight twitch at my words. Just lies there, slack-jawed and too quiet for a man who had no problem taunting me every day, like he’s daring me to feel sorry for him.
Like he wants to be forgiven.
But I don’t forgive him because dying for me doesn’t erase everything.
I press my forehead to the side of his and close my eyes. My voice drops to a whisper, barely human. “You die on me, Roman, and I’ll never let you rest.”
The ambulance jerks to a stop, and suddenly the doorsare flung open and hands are dragging him away from me. I follow, numb, stumbling out into the light like something half-feral.
Someone tries to hold me back—some young nurse with soft eyes and gentler hands. I shake her off like she’s made of paper. “I said I’m going with him.”
They let me. Again. No one argues with the look on my face. No one argues with grief that already tastes like murder.
Inside, it’s all white walls and cold light and voices too calm for what’s happening. They rush him through swinging doors, shouting stats and doses, trying to keep him alive. I’m forced to stop at the threshold, watching them cut his shirt open, blood smeared across his chest like war paint.
I don’t pray because it never saved me.
I don’t beg because my pleas were never listened to.
I stand here, vibrating with fury, fear, and something worse. Hope.
He’s flatlining. I hear it.
That long, high note that signals to death that another soul is to be taken.
The kind they use in movies to saythis is the end. But this isn’t a movie.
This is Roman Valen.
And Roman Valen doesn’t get to leave things unfinished.
My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palm hard enough to get that sting of pain.
“You’re a coward,” I whisper, voice shaking. “You don’t get to die. Not until I’m done hating you.”
And maybe not even then.
Chapter 2
Roman
Darkness doesn’t feel like darkness when you’re in it.
