The Promise (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 2), Bethany-Kris [top 50 books to read .txt] 📗

of her that came out to play with people she must have known she couldn’t trust.

Not that he was in any way educated enough to understand what was happening in her mind—because he didn’t. Wouldn’t pretend to, either.

Yet, he wondered ...

Was there a connection there?

A reason?

He had to turn away from the sight of her altogether, knowing he needed to keep the part of him in check that seemed to grab hold of the idea that it was his responsibility now to do what she needed—anything she needed. If only because he liked it, and he wasn’t ready to deal with that.

Roman still had to figure out how he was going to fit Karine into his life—in New York with his family, and business. It wasn’t like he could just show back up here without some kind of an explanation about the chick that came along for the ride. The agreement with Maxim got her here, but he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do now, either. Not that he really had an option but to make it work.

That was the thing about choices.

Once made, it was done.

Besides, he wasn’t sure here was where Karine wanted to be, anyway. She was suspicious of him—didn’t trust his intentions. And why should she?

At most, he’d given her a good lay. At worst, he’d taken her away from a man that wouldn’t take kindly to a missing bride on his wedding day.

He bet she was so used to the illusion of a choice—or none at all—that Roman demanding she do as he told her, even leaving with him, was just another thing Karine did. What happened when she learned she could do things for herself—be her own voice?

Roman figured that was for Karine to work out—however she wanted and needed to. Grabbing a bottle from the bar, he headed back to his bedroom with quiet footsteps. He had to make a phone call, and quickly.

In the privacy of his room, Roman still didn’t feel like it was enough. He slipped between the sliding glass doors that led to a small veranda where two chairs sitting between a glass table faced outward. On the table, he sat down the bottle of vodka he’d grabbed from the bar.

It was the only thing that was going to help the pain that was beginning to spread everywhere. It didn’t matter what time of day it was; he didn’t need a fucking excuse to drink. He still had a pretty good one.

He dropped into one of the chairs and dialed his father’s phone while working the top off the vodka bottle. Nobody could say he wasn’t capable of multitasking when life got tough—right?

The last time he’d spoken with Demyan was a few days before the shit went down in Chicago, but that felt like a hot minute now. His father had no idea what had happened, or just how much had changed. The advice he’d given Roman to keep his head down, stay out of trouble, and to get the job done was entirely fucked at this point. He couldn’t have screwed that up any worse than he did.

“Roman,” came Demyan’s calm greeting the second his father picked up the phone.

If only he felt the same.

What was it like to be unaware—blissfully, so, even?

“We need to meet up,” Roman said.

His father’s answering silence said a lot, and even though he couldn’t see him, he was fully able to imagine Demyan’s furrowed brows. Or even the disappointment cloaking his father’s stare.

He had to give Demyan credit, though. He didn’t ask Roman to repeat himself, or even confirm that his words meant he was in the city—home.

In fact, all his father asked was, “Where?”

• • •

Roman eventually wandered back to where Karine was still asleep. Only to find she had moved slightly, making the notebook—secured under the pillow earlier—fall to the gleaming floor.

He knew better, but he also couldn’t help himself. Getting close enough to kneel beside her without a sound, he reached for the notebook but doing so faced him directly with her. She slept peacefully, not even a knot between her brows to say her dreams were unpleasant. Like this, it was hard to imagine that she was the same troubled soul who had been in the passenger seat when he left Chicago.

The walls were up during that car ride.

All the way up.

If she regretted coming to New York with him, by her own choice or otherwise, could Roman really blame her?

No, he knew it wasn’t her fault.

Sighing in her sleep, Karine’s eyelids fluttered as she shifted a bit on the chaise. Roman straightened up and backed away with footsteps that weren’t exactly quiet, but at least put some distance between the two.

She didn’t wake up.

Roman let out the air he’d been holding as Karine rolled to her other side. Her shoulders lifted with a loud exhale, but that was it. She seemed to fall into a deeper sleep, unbothered with her surroundings. Her dark, sleek hair tumbled over one side of her face so he couldn’t see her, but the rhythmic rise and fall of the blanket said she was fine for the moment.

Roman resisted the urge to just carry her to a bedroom where she would sleep comfortably, and not be in the way. That really didn’t seem like the brightest idea. He didn’t need to wake her with a startle because he was touching her, or whatever.

Fuck it.

She could sleep where she wanted—for today.

With the distance between them, he felt safe to flip through the notebook. One he recognized. She must have discovered it in the kitchen junk drawer where everything that didn’t have a specific home found a place. Random doodles and angry marks from a pen filled the first couple of pages. Nothing he could decipher as important. On the third page, he found a sketch of himself.

Roman studied the pen strokes that made up an image of him asleep on his bed. It was a precise and artistic representation, including