“I can’t ask you to do that—”
“You didn’t ask; I offered,” Morgan interrupts. “And it’s not like you have a lot of options right now.”
She’s right, and we both know it. “Just until I figure things out,” I agree. “I’ll look for a job. Something to tide me over until spring.”
“The coffee shop near my place is hiring,” Morgan suggests. “Pay’s shit, but it’s something.”
I nod, mind already planning the steps I need to take. Get a job. Find a place of my own. Figure out what to do about my marriage.
“Actually,” I say slowly, “there’s one more thing I need help with.”
Morgan raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“I need a divorce lawyer.”
Morgan looks surprised. “Whoa. Are you sure? I mean, I know you’re pissed at Roman right now, and you have every right to be, but divorce?”
“I’m sure,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “Whatever Roman and I had, it’s gone. It was probably never there to begin with.”
It’s true. The Roman I thought I married doesn’t exist. Maybe he never did. Roman has been showing me who he really is our entire marriage, and I’ve been ignoring it, creating a fantasy and ignoring the red flags he’s been waving right in front of my face. The man who left me on the side of the road in the dark? Who swore to Naomi that nothing was more important than her safety? That is the man I married. It’s who Roman’s been all along.
“Okay,” Morgan says simply. “If you’re sure, I’ll help you find an attorney.”
“I’m sure,” I say, turning back to her. “It’s time to start over.”
What I don’t say is that I’m not just leaving Roman. I’m leaving behind the woman I was with him; the quiet, unquestioning wife who accepted less than she deserved. Kit may have kidnapped me, may have tried to break me, but he also forced me to see the truth about my marriage. And now that I’ve seen it, I can’t go back to pretending.
The only question is where I go from here.
18
Chapter 18
Roman
The half-finished design on my client’s arm blurs before my eyes. It’s the third time I’ve lost my place in the pattern. Exhaustion and worry gnaw at the edges of my concentration. It’s been nine days since Kayla was released from the hospital — nine days of showing up at Morgan’s place every single day only to be turned away at the door. Nine days of hell.
“Sorry,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes with my free hand. “Need a minute.”
My client, a regular who’s been coming to me for years, just nods. “Take your time, man. I heard about your old lady. That’s rough.”
I don’t respond. News travels fast in a small town like Redbird, especially when it involves the VP of the Devil’sRejects. Everyone knows my wife was kidnapped. Everyone knows she’s refusing to see me now that she’s free.
“You look like shit,” Dragon says from where he’s lounging in the waiting area, flipping through a magazine. “When’s the last time you slept?”
I ignore him too, turning back to my client. “We’re almost done. Let’s finish this up.”
I force myself to focus, to let the familiar rhythm of the needle guide me. For a few precious minutes, I can lose myself in the work and forget about the complete disaster that is the rest of my life.
When I finish, I wrap the fresh ink and give my standard aftercare instructions on autopilot. The client hands me cash, claps me on the shoulder with a concerned look, and leaves. As soon as the door closes behind him, I slump into my chair, exhaustion hitting me like a physical weight.
“Seriously,” Dragon says, setting aside the magazine, “you need to pull yourself together.”
“Why the fuck are you still here?” I snap, the question that’s been burning in my mind for days finally spilling out. “Kayla’s free. Demon’s in the wind. Don’t you have your own club to run?”
Dragon’s mouth quirks up at one corner, amused by my outburst. “And miss watching you fall apart so spectacularly? It’s the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in years.”
“Fuck you.” I stand up and begin cleaning my station with more force than necessary.