Page 55 of Broken By Silence
The wound’s closed now, the stitches dissolved, the bruises faded into yellow and green shadows on my skin.
Physically, I’m fine.
I can walk, breathe, and even train again in small bursts, but the ache hasn’t left. It lives deeper than bone. It’s not just pain in my chest where the bullet went—it’s in the hollow spaces of this house, in the way every laugh and whispered conversation feels like something I’ve been cut out of.
We’ve settled into a routine.
Chaotic, yet it somehow works for them.
Archer is her anchor, steady and unrelenting, always near enough to catch her if she falters. Oscar is her quiet, constant presence—never demanding, just there, a foundation she can lean against.Crew, loud-mouthed as he is, circles her like he’s just waiting for the gates to open so he can plant himself at her side without anyone biting his head off.
And Elijah. Christ. Elijah hovers like a shadow stitched to her heels. He doesn’t speak unless she does, doesn’t move unless she allows it. He lurks in doorways, lingers at the edges of rooms, his whole existence tied to her breathing. Sometimes I swear I see the way his hands twitch, like it takes every ounce of control not to reach for her.
Everyone calls it penance, but to me it feels like an obsession dressed up in silence.
Then there’s me.
Roman, the outsider. Roman, the fuck-up. Roman, the one she still can’t look at without flinching.
The jealousy burns, sharp and constant. It coils in my gut every time I see Archer press his lips to her temple, every time Oscar’s hand brushes hers and she doesn’t flinch.
It’s not that I think I deserve it—I know I don’t.
Not after everything I did. Not after everything my family carved into her life. But watching her give pieces of herself to them, while she won’t even look me in the eye half the time… it guts me.
I hate them.
Hate that they’re all here getting to be around her without her flinching or removing herself.
But mostly I hate myself.
Because the truth is, I’m not much better. I still hover. Still waiting for scraps. Still cling to whatever small moments she doesn’t shut me out completely.
I want to be the one she doesn’t shy away from. I want to be the one she lets touch her without fear. I want—fuck, I want so much it makes me sick.
But I’m not. I’m not the one she lets in. I’m the one she avoids. The one she sidesteps in hallways, the one whose voice makesher stiffen.
And maybe I deserve that. Maybe that’s all I’ll ever deserve.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me, snapping me out of the spiral. I glance down and see the name flash across the screen.
Pacheco
Shipment expected next week. Same port. You’ve got the product, yes?
Me
Shipment’s ready. Same crates, same schedule. You’ll have it.
And it’s not a lie. I learned years ago to be able to schedule everything from tapping away on my phone, while I couldn’t walk from a beating from my father. Now, I’m running an empire from Claire’s sofa—an empire I still need to be able to take my father down.
I shove the phone face down and rub my hands over my face, trying to chase the anger out of me before I explode.
“Roman?”
Her voice.
My spine stiffens instantly. I lower my hands, and there she is, standing in the doorway like she’s not sure she belongs in the same room as me.
