Page 58 of From Rome, With Hate

Eleven days.

We’ve barely spoken in eleven days.

Somehow, in this tiny cabin, we’ve managed to avoid one another. I’ve kept myself busy with either pouring myself into work through my laptop or walking the property multiple times a day, making sure to avoid the bridge at all costs.

Speaking of avoiding, I’ve steered clear of all forms of social media for long periods of time, only quickly dropping a random, insignificant post to keep up appearances. If I didn’t post, my assistant or friends would think I’d been kidnapped or killed.

At least they wouldn’t be entirely wrong about one of them.

Aside from the occasional phone chat with Charleigh or Selene, the only other form of socialization has been with Marcus whenever he’s at the cabin. Rome must send him to the city for errands every now and then because there are days when he’s gone and I don’t see him until I’ve woken up the next morning.

I don’t talk to Rome.

We exist in the house, avoiding each other. I’ve taken to sleeping in the bedroom. Marcus must be sleeping on the small sofa in the living room because, most days, I’ve come downstairsto see his large body curled up in it. I have no idea where Rome has been sleeping, and I really don’t care. He could sleep on a pile of rocks and I couldn’t care less. By the time I emerge from my room, he’s already up either working on his laptop or fussing around the house aimlessly.

It’s easier to avoid Rome on the days when Marcus is here. I make sure to spend as much time as I can with him, desperate for human interaction, and while I could try and talk with Rome, it isn’t safe. He’s never been safe. I always spiral so easily, my hands itching to touch him. Not to mention, I haven’t been able to let go of our last conversation. The one where he compared our mothers’ murders. I haven’t been able to look at him without wondering if it’s something he’s thought of ever since his mother’s murder.

Is his pain worse than mine? What a stupid fucking question.

To keep myself from interacting with Rome, I hang out with Marcus. We’ve gone on walks together, chatted about his dating life, only venturing as far as his injured leg will allow. Although, I don’t understand how he makes room for dating since he works for Rome full time. We’ve played a few games of Monopoly, where I always kick his ass by buying up every single property, or several rounds of poker, betting candies and snacks instead of money.

If he’s tired of it, he doesn’t let on, probably thinking it’s best to stay out of whatever drama is going on between Rome and me. It isn’t hard for him to figure out something must have happened between us that first night, because Rome has consistently stayed silent, sulking in corners of the house with his signature brooding stare.

Our glances at each other have become more heated and cutting, and on the few occasions when Rome and I have spoken in front of Marcus, we haven’t been kind. We’ve been short and bitter, spewing venom at one another with clipped, one-wordanswers. It’s better this way to avoid remembering how his hot, wet tongue was inside me a week and a half ago.

I reveal my hand to Marcus, flipping the cards over on the plush, cushioned ottoman set in the middle of the living room, as my laughter climbing up my throat.

“Fuck.” Marcus groans, setting his hand down opposite from mine, revealing his cards: a pair of twos. “How are you so good at poker, Ms. Capuleti?”

I grin, rocking back and forth on the pillow I’m sitting on. “My father taught me when I was young. My brother used to love playing with me until I spent an entire summer practicing while he was away at summer school. He swore off playing against me when he lost five thousand to me the first night after he’d come home.”

Marcus’s thick eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “No shit.” He turns to Rome, who is sitting in the corner of the room, and points to me with a lopsided grin. “Can you believe this little firecracker?”

“Nope,” Rome huffs, using his favorite one-word answer before pressing his lips together.

Sitting in a worn leather armchair, his legs are outstretched and his ankles crossed on a small wooden footrest. It’ rare to see him wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweats, and I’m thankful he’s sitting with his laptop over his lap, shielding the ridiculously large bulge in his pants. They leave entirely too much to the imagination. But I guess you could say I don’t need to imagine, since I’m unable to count how many times he’s buried it deep inside me.

Although, that was ten years ago.

Rome’s dark gaze shifts over to me.

He’s also wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose. As far as I’m aware, he has perfect vision. Maybe they’re the blue light-blocking ones and he only wearsthem when he’s working on his laptop. Seeing him wear them does something to my insides. Like the sight of him in a fucking T-shirt and gray joggers.

Marcus tilts his head to the side, wincing at Rome before he twists back to face me and gives me a gentle reassuring smile.

I smile in response, letting him know I appreciate him. I hope he knows how much of a friend he’s been to me this past week.

“Well, Ms. Capuleti.” Marcus gathers up the pile of cards on the ottoman. “Since we’re playing with chocolate candies and not real money, how about we play another round?”

“You’re on.” I grin, feeling the intensity of Rome’s stare from here.

I imagine him sinking his teeth into my breast again and tearing my pajama shorts in half just to save time before driving his thick cock inside me.

My cheeks burn with heat, and I clear my throat, adjusting against the pillow again. I tuck my legs under me as Marcus passes me the deck to shuffle. My leg has healed nicely. Rome was correct in saying they weren’t deep enough for stitches, but they still hurt the first few days. I haven’t let Rome check the condition of my wounds since he wrapped them. He hasn’t offered either, and I’m grateful. He knows it would only open the door for another ‘bridge’ situation.

Instead, I’ve worked to keep the wounds clean with bandages and antibiotic ointment myself.

“Mrs. Montgomery.” Rome’s use of my married name stops both Marcus and me in our tracks.