Page 81 of From Rome, With Hate

I ignore the message from my dad, knowing it probably has to do with the fact he ran into William Trent’s father at some social event. The thought makes me fucking sick.

Curiosity eats away at me. I open my social media and search Rome’s name. I’ve only typed the third letter in when I hear a creak outside my bedroom door.

My pulse races as I hold my breath, waiting to see if I hear it again.

Crack!

I gasp, my attention darting to the window in the bedroom. The large tree outside sways in the storm. Of course, it’s fucking raining again. A long, thin branch flails around in the wind, scratching against the window, sending a chill down my spine.

Boom!

Another pounding from outside the bedroom has me snapping my head in the other direction again. Either it’s like this every night with Rome somewhere around the house, or this is something else. Or someone.

The chill slinking down my spine turns into full blown panic when the pounding grows closer.

Shit. There’s no lock on the bedroom door. What if the person after Rome and me is here? What if they’ve already killed Rome and are heading here to take me out next?

I’ve watched one too many crime documentaries for this shit.

Scrambling out of the bed, I snatch one of the heavy metal candlesticks from on top of the dresser and hold it over my head. Slowly creeping toward the bedroom door, I prepare myself forwhatever is on the other side. I picture a masked man dressed in all black clothing with equally black beady eyes.

The thought terrifies me, but I need to find Rome. I may be confused about where we stand, but it’s better than staying here and getting murdered.

I open my mouth to shout his name, but if the person after me truly is here, I don’t want to alert them. So, I snap it shut and try to breathe as quietly as possible.

When I reach the door, I wrap my hand around the knob and slowly turn it. After opening it a few inches, I peek out into the hallway. There’s no one there. Then again, it is completely dark. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust before I’m pushing the door open wider, hoping I don’t hear the sound again. I glance down both ends of the hallway before stepping out.

Raising the candlestick higher in the air, I’m shaking with nerves as I cross the threshold. A loud yelp climbs out of my throat when my foot hits a solid rock. I fly forward, toppling over the rock and landing face first onto the hardwood floor. The candlestick flies out of my hand, scattering across the floor and down the stairs, echoing throughout the house.

“Ow.” A deep, heavy voice groans under me. “What the hell, Lark?”

“Rome?” Pain blooms across the front of my body. My shoulder aches as I twist to lay on my side and look down at my feet, where Rome is tangled.

“It’s me.” He rolls to his side, gripping my ankle.

Relief washes over me as I roll from my side, too, onto my back. I blow out a heavy breath as Rome’s hand slides up my leg to my hip. He hovers over me. It’s hard to see him clearly in the dark until he leans down close enough to my face and cups my cheek.

“Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself again?”

I don’t push him away this time. I don’t refuse his help. Instead, I chuckle, finding the humor in it all—me thinking someone was in the house, me tripping over him. I push my hair from my face.

“I’m okay.” I blow out a breath, still laughing. “Wait.” I stop laughing and stare up at my husband with pinched brows. “Why were you on the floor in front of my room?”

His hand slides away from my face, and he sits back with his arms resting on his bent knees.

I sit up myself, fixing my unkempt hair.

Rome doesn’t answer me. He simply smooths his hand over his dark hair. He’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a dark gray T-shirt. My attention drops to the blanket and small, square, striped pillow I recognize from the sofa in the living room. Then I see the pistol peeking out from under the pillow.

“Have you been sleeping out here every night?”

He presses his lips together, turning to look at his makeshift bed. “Um, yeah, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “The door doesn’t have a lock on it.”

A lump forms in my throat and I have to swallow around it just to get air to my lungs. My stomach somersaults, and heat spreads across my body. He’s been sleeping on the floor every single night, guarding me.