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

the peek of the tattoo on the back of his neck while he laid on his stomach, and arm stretched under his pillow to offer more support. It captured the same thing in his sleeping expression that he had found in Karine’s.

At first glance, the sketch seemed like a crude job done by a kid. It was only upon closer inspection that it became clear the messy strokes that repeated around the main lines of the sketch were only to distort the more perfected image beneath. Like the hand of the artist had been taught to hide what she was drawing ... or seeing.

More surprising was what he found written at the bottom of the page. A single sentence written and addressed to him, confirming what he’d already known the second he saw the notebook.

*

Thank you, Roman.

-Katee

*

So, even though Karine had slept her night away, a part of her had not. The morning was sacrificed because of it, apparently.

He was less concerned with the fact he had been watched for probably hours the night before as he slept, and more that he wondered how often she did get a full night’s rest. Adding that on top of the medication constantly shoved at Karine, and a world filled with people who either couldn’t stand the sight of her or only wanted to hurt her, he was no longer asking why.

Roman thought the better question might be why not. And fuck, he couldn’t afford to be any more invested in this than he already was—it was already too much for him to handle. He wasn’t equipped for this.

There was a lump in his throat that he quickly swallowed because it didn’t matter what Roman couldn’t do—there was still a lot he could. He wasn’t exactly the type to lose, and the first thing he had to handle before anything else was his father.

He owed Demyan that.

• • •

Demyan arrived at the apartment in record time—he always did have the best drivers who knew exactly how to fight their way through city traffic. One of the most unfortunate parts of being the boss, Roman knew, was the fact they were rarely behind the wheel themselves.

Roman barely had time to make it halfway through the bottle of vodka on his veranda before the people from the front desk in the lobby rang him to say Demyan—and another guest—had arrived.

Demyan wasn’t made to wait in the downstairs lobby until Roman came down to get him like the rest of the guests for the building—policy bullshit unless the front desk was told ahead of time. That happened to Demyan all of one time before his father made it very clear it had better never happen again.

At the door of his smaller lobby, he waited to greet his father when he emerged from the elevator. A minute later, Demyan stepped out followed by the bull who was never too far away from his boss. The man kept his distance from the two as Demyan came closer to his son, and also his eye on the boss at all times.

Even in his son’s home.

The man was never safe.

Demyan strode past the leather bucket chairs in the small lobby with not a hint on his face that he was surprised his son was back in New York. He hid it well, but Roman still found the concern his father tried to hide in the way the man’s gaze roamed over him from head to toe. It was a hard pill to swallow to know he was bruised and battered, and there wasn’t anyway to hide it.

Roman stood back, tipping his head at his father in one quick acknowledgement. “Papa.”

“You look ... sore,” Demyan commented. “Why?”

Where did he start?

Maybe the reason he didn’t know where to begin was because his father most likely wouldn’t even understand. He couldn’t start with Maxim and the agreement without going through the lead-up, and that was just as messy. Things that were simple for other people—black and white things like rules—were a lot more complicated for Roman.

Always had been.

“I’m fine,” he replied.

Demyan came to a stop in front of his son where Roman stood in the half-opened apartment doorway. He could have walked right on through to the living area, but he didn’t. It was the scrutiny of his gaze that focused on the blooming bruises crawling around Roman’s wrists where he had shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy sweats. He had bothered to put on a shirt, but that was only to hide the worst of the bruises.

The bull took his position in the hallway where he could keep his sights on his boss, but still closer to the elevator than the two men.

“Those marks don’t scream fine,” his father murmured.

“You should see my ribcage.”

His sarcastic joke flew right over his father’s head because Demyan didn’t even blink. The arch of his brow said he wasn’t entirely pleased, though. It was then that his father moved beyond him in the doorway to step inside without waiting for permission, and Roman was fast on his heels.

It took everything in him to keep from tensing up or crushing his molars from the pressure of his clenched jaw while his father walked into the brightly sunlit space. Not because he was there, but what Roman expected his father to immediately notice.

Or rather, who.

Demyan spun around on his heels fast, his earlier calm façade gone. He hadn’t even spotted Karine—didn’t give himself enough time to before his concern overweighed his need to keep up the image. “So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on, Roman, or will I have to embarrass you by asking specific questions?”

Right to the point, as usual.

It wasn’t even the tone—that you will listen, you will hear me tone—his father used that made Roman’s spine straighten and his hackles raise. He didn’t even think Demyan could help it; authority coated everything he did because it had to. That didn’t mean his son was any better