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His words, or maybe the way he says them so casually, like the possibility of him being killed is a fact of life, send anxiety shooting through me. The thought of something bad happening to him hurts. I've always told myself I only worried about him for Tahani's sake, but I think I was lying to myself. I think, well, I think it would devastate me if anything were to happen to him.
"I told you I don't work with ordinary criminals, baby," he says softly, reading my expression. "I work with some really fucked up people. The only thing they know is violence and vengeance. They deal in guns and drugs and worse. I know who they are. I know what they are. I'm not going to put myself in danger unnecessarily."
"Why do you do it?" I ask, wanting to understand. I've always known the gist of what he does, but I don't think I ever really thought about the risks before. Even when he told me about his partner's son and the man he killed, I didn't think too deeply about what that meant for him.
"Who else is going to?" he asks instead of answering. The corner of his lip tilts up in a gentle smile. He reaches out and snags my hand, lacing our fingers together. "I do what I do so people like you, people like Tahani, never have to know the fucked up things people are capable of doing to others. I never want that shit to touch you."
"Did you always want to go into law enforcement?"
"No. I had no interest in following in my father's footsteps until the day he got shot," he says. "I was eighteen, and he was trying to protect a woman from her abusive husband. The guy shot him in the chest. The guy's wife was at the hospital with us the entire time, standing vigil beside us until my dad died. I never understood until then exactly what he'd always tried to instill in me about honor and doing the right thing. The world needs people like us, so people like her, like you and Tahani, never have to deal with motherfuckers like that."
"Are you scared?" I whisper around the lump in my throat. He's so earnest, so sincere…it's wrecking me a little bit. He's wrecking me, letting me in like this. I have a feeling it's not something he does often or at all, and I don't know why he's giving me this piece of him, but I want it.
"Of being shot like he was? Of the people I work with? Of dying?" He shakes his head, his gaze locked on our hands as I cling to him. "No. I'm not afraid of that."
"What are you afraid of?" I ask, desperate to understand him and the look in his eye. Everything inside me wants every little piece of him that he's willing to hand over. That scares the shit out of me and doesn't scare me enough at the same time. I feel like Icarus, flying too close to the sun and not close enough at once.
"Of this," he says, so softly I'm not sure he intended to say the words out loud. He lifts his gaze to mine, and I see the truth in his eyes. He's afraid of me. Of what he wants from me. Of what I make him feel.
I want to look away, to hide from him again…but I can't.
"Me too," I whisper.
"You're safe with me, Mila," he promises, heat in his voice.
I don't think I am, though. I think if anyone has the power to break me, it just might be him. Damien didn't have that power, but Roman does. And that's how I know I'm in trouble…big trouble. Because even knowing that? Even though the way he makes me feel scares the shit out of me? It doesn't change how much I want him.
We avoid heavier topics for the rest of dinner, instead talking about books and current events. Roman knows a hell of a lot more about the state of the world than I do. I'm not sure why I'm surprised to learn that he's so well-read, but it does surprise me. It surprises me even more when he quotes Anais Nin's Little Birds to me in that devilish voice, sending little ripples of heat through me.
When he asks about my upcoming interview, I find myself hesitating to tell him that it's in Los Angeles. Some little voice in the back of my mind warns me to keep that tidbit to myself, that he won't like knowing I'll be so close to the dangerous people he works with. I skirt around the topic, letting him assume the interview is in Berkeley.
By the time we finish eating, other diners have begun to trickle in, quickly filling up the place. Additional staff members materialize out of the kitchen. The intimate feel of the restaurant never quite diminishes, though, and I find that Roman was right. It is quiet here. Everyone speaks softly, the noise level never rising to the same dull roar of most restaurants. That leads me to believe he isn't the only one who comes here because it's peaceful.
"How's your foot?" he asks as we walk back toward the truck. His arm is around my waist, holding me to him. He's warm beside me, and I find myself relaxing into his touch.
"It feels a lot better today. Whatever you've been putting on it seems to be doing the trick." It's still sore, but I'm able to put my full weight on it again.
He opens my door for me and then lifts me into the truck with his hands on my waist. Once I'm settled, he closes the door before walking around to the driver's side. He moves so gracefully for someone so massive. It's honestly a little captivating. He's captivating. I've never met anyone who exudes confidence and authority like he does. It's like he was born to be a cop.
We ride in silence back to the condo, but it's comfortable. Peaceful. I relax even further the closer to the condo we get, letting the sound of the waves and the smell of the sea wash over me. Debris and broken tree limbs litter yards here and there, standing in testament to the ferocity of the storm that passed earlier, but the scent of rain is gone, leaving behind nothing but the ocean and the breeze blowing in from the water.
"Walk on the beach with me?" he asks after pulling into the driveway and killing the engine.
I nod without hesitation.
He hops out of the truck and circles around to my door. Once I'm on the ground beside him, he pulls me into his side again and walks around the side of the condo, following the trail down to the water.
The beach is as empty as always, but the storm has washed up all sorts of junk. Broken bottles, kelp, and water-logged chunks of wood are strewn along the shoreline. The waves lap against it, pulling some of it back out to sea and pushing other bits further inland.
The sun is a bright ball on the horizon, slowly sinking into its nightly cradle. The water is a riot of colors. So is the sky above. Brightness and beauty mingle with the destruction and trash on the beach in a harsh juxtaposition that steals my breath.
"I can't believe I slept through all of this," I say softly as we walk. Sand finds its way into my ballet flats with every step, but I don't kick them off like I normally would. Too much glass litters the beach. No way am I going to risk slicing open my other foot.
"You were exhausted."
I stop walking and frown at him. He sounds guilty, like it's his fault that we haven't been able to keep our hands off each other, like he's responsible for me in some way.
He draws to a stop beside me and tilts his head down until his gaze meets mine. I can't read his expression, but it instantly makes me tense up.
