Page 40 of From Rome, With Hate

“But, Lark…”

“Please, Rome,” she begs, grabbing my hands and forcing me backward toward the balcony railing. “I don’t want him to see you. If he does, he’ll have reason to go after your family. Go.”

“Okay,” I agree, finally snapping out of the trance I’ve been caught in.

Kingsten calls out for Julianna again, followed by a knock on her bedroom door. She snaps her head over her shoulder before turning back to me.

“Go, Rome,” she hisses.

I nod and scramble to climb back over the railing. I’m on the other side but stop to grab onto her hand and pull her down, crashing her mouth to mine. I savor our kiss before pulling back.

Resting my forehead against hers, I whisper, “We’ll find a way to be together, Lark. I promise.”

I plant one last gentle kiss to her forehead.

She smiles, backing away. “I love you, Rome Montgomery.”

“I love you, Julianna Capuleti.”

I climb down the balcony just as I hear her bedroom door open, then I sneak out of her yard and drive home, knowing I’ve never been this deliriously happy in my life.

THIRTEEN

JULIANNA

When I open my eyes hours later, my hangover is officially gone. I wish I could say the nightmare of being forced to stay in Rome’s cabin was over too, but reality soon reminds me it isn’t.

I feel awful as I toss the covers aside. My stomach grumbles as I make my way out of bed and across the room. I pass by my reflection in the mirror, and my jaw drops in horror. My hair looks like a goddamn rat’s nest, dried mascara streaks down my cheeks, and my red lipstick is practically a stain at this point.

“Shit.” I sigh, brushing my fingers through my hair and wiping my hands down the front of my face, deciding where to start. My stomach is screaming at me for food, but there’s no way in hell I’m going downstairs looking like I’ve just crawled out from the bottom of the pond outside. It would only fuel Rome’s insults.

I spin on my heel and reach for my phone. It’s early afternoon. Fuck, I never sent Rome my list of items for him to pick up from the city. The only clothes I have are the ones I’m wearing. I curl my lip in disgust before swinging my gaze to the large dresser on the other side of the bedroom. I slowly pad my way over and stare at the rich wooden drawers, lifting my thumb to my mouth. I bite down on my nail, nerves bundling inside me.

There’s no telling what’s inside. If there are still clothes, they’re probably all Rome’s. Aside from the décor and furniture being the exact same as they were ten years ago, that doesn’t mean the contents of Rome’s dressers are the same, too. He’s obviously been coming here periodically, though, at least enough to keep fresh fruit in the refrigerator.

“It’s whatever,” I say out loud, shaking off the nerves and yanking the drawer open.

I’m left gasping when I learn how wrong I am. The contents of the drawer aren’t rotated as often as a bowl of fucking strawberries.

Refusing to let the ghosts of my past haunt me, I reach inside and dig out my old pair of black leggings and my off-the-shoulder, scallop-trimmed matching tank. It’s been ten years since I’ve worn these clothes. I never kept too many here and I’m shocked the few items I did bring to the cabin are still where I left them.

Refusing to let a stupid outfit send me into a tailspin, I fist the two items and slam the drawer shut. Until I send Rome my list for Marcus to pick up, these are my only options. I refuse to wear any of Rome’s clothes.

Popping my head into the only closet in the cabin, I see Rome’s clothes hanging neatly, as they always were back then. I grab a pair of his neatly folded black socks. But what about shoes?

I sigh with relief when I spot my old favorite pair of designer running shoes exactly where I left them, sitting on the shoe rack.

I drop the only two clothing items on the foot of the bed and strip out of my dress on the way to the connected bathroom.

As it was the last time I was here, the only bathroom in the cabin is the same size as the bedroom. Decked out in thick wood walls and slate stone touches, it’s still just as stunning as it wasten years ago. Set in the center of the room is a clawfoot bathtub, complete with gold faucets and a detachable sprayer.

While running the bath, I wait for it to fill and use the time waiting to send Rome my list of essentials: clothes, toiletries, laptop computer. I still have no clue how long he intends on holding me here and, if possible, I’d still like to be able to work. I can only hold off my co-workers and friends for so long before their suspicions creep in.

By the time I finish sending Rome my list, the bathtub is full. I’m bubbling with anticipation when I slowly dip my toe into the scorching hot water.

“Fuck, that feels good.” I moan, sinking completely in and taking my time washing myself, using the bit of peace I have to regather my thoughts and feelings. I’ve spent the past ten years avoiding the past. I’ve never allowed myself to feel, refusing to acknowledge the devastation that came with loving Rome and marrying him. All at the age of eighteen.

I tuck my legs against my chest, wrap my arms around them and rest my forehead on my knees. The steam from the water wafts up and into my face. I close my eyes, but all I see is Rome. Rome at eighteen, marrying me. Rome at fourteen, laughing and pointing as I threw up into the cafeteria trash after he’d replaced my pudding with mayonnaise. Then I see him, feel him against me, his kiss on my lips, his head between my thighs, those dark blue eyes watching me react to his assaulting tongue.