Roman watched from a distance.
And then, one Friday night, distance ended.
You found him in the kitchen after midnight, of all places, standing over a cup of black coffee while the rest of the townhouse slept. His tie was loose. His sleeves were rolled again. There was blood on his cuff.
You stopped in the doorway.
“Is that yours?”
He looked down. “No.”
You should have been horrified.
Part of you was.
But another part—the part that had seen Vanessa’s messages about Liam, the part that understood monsters did not disappear just because polite people ignored them—knew better than to ask for a clean world when you had never lived in one.
“Should I ask?”
“No.”
You nodded.
Then you walked to the sink, took a cloth, wet it, and held it out.
Roman stared at it.
“I’m not cleaning it for you,” you said. “You have hands.”
For a second, he looked startled.
Then he took the cloth.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
His gaze snapped to your face.
“What?” you asked.
“That,” he said.
“What?”
“Your laugh.”
Heat climbed your neck. “It wasn’t much.”
“It was enough.”
Silence settled, but it was not empty.
Roman cleaned his cuff slowly. You sat at the island, tucking your feet beneath you, and watched the most feared man in New York try to remove blood from white cotton like a guilty schoolboy.
“Do you ever get tired?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
