Suddenly, the bedroom door flung open, and Roman crossed the room to loom over her. She looked up to see his bare, massive chest and shoulders silhouetted against the moonlight coming through the windows.
"What the hell is going on out here?"
"Um…nothing," Phoebe mumbled, pulling the blanket more tightly around her.
"Then why are you so loud?" he demanded.
Loud? All she'd been doing was breathing—the shock of his appearance had silenced her traitorous gut.
"I-I don't understand."
The alpha heaved a sigh and focused his gaze pointedly on her midsection. "Your stomach is growling loud enough to shake the shingles off the roof."
There was no way he could hear that from behind a closed door…was there?
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I can't control it. It just does that when I haven't eaten anything."
Even in the dim moonlight, she could see Roman's expression tighten. "And why the hell are you starving yourself?"
"I'm not. It's just…"
Roman shook his head impatiently. "Just fucking tell me," he growled menacingly.
"It's just that you told me not to steal from you," she said in a rush, "and I didn't know if you included food in that."
Roman's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "Oh, for fuck's sake!"
He stomped into the kitchen and started throwing open cupboard doors, pulling out the remains of the loaf of bread and tossing it across the room at her. Phoebe barely caught it as it bounced off her chest. A cloth-wrapped chunk of cheese followed and rolled off the couch onto the floor.
"I don't expect you to starve," he growled, crossing his arms in front of his chest and glaring from across the room. Phoebe sat up, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she gathered the food onto her lap. "But don't sit around expecting me to make you a five-course meal either. If you're hungry, eat. If you're thirsty, drink. Got it?"
Phoebe nodded mutely, not meeting his gaze.
"Good. And the same goes for all your other basic needs. Consider this my permission to sleep, shower, and shit whenever you feel the need."
He turned his back without another word, but at the doorway to the bedroom, he paused.
"And Phoebe," he said, without bothering to turn and face her.
"Yes?"
"I'm adding one more rule to that list of yours. Do not fucking keep me up at night."
Phoebe nearly dropped her dinner when the door slammed shut.
Chapter Five
The girl kept him up all night.
It wasn't her fault. She wasn't doing it on purpose. Hell, she wasn't doing anything at all, other than sleeping soundly, her breath rising and falling in even intervals marked with the occasional soft sigh.
Roman might not be able to blame her for his lack of sleep, but he still felt the need to blame someone.
He could tell from the angle of the moonlight coming through his window that it was the early hours of the morning—which meant he'd already lost this battle and would spend the day walking around like a zombie on next to no sleep.
All because of that damn girl in the other room, a girl who should never be here in the first place.
Roman was furious, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't direct his rage at her. Shit, he couldn't even blame her waste-of-breath father and his dumbass son.
No, the only person Roman was angry at was himself.
He knew better than to deal with a couple of known grifters. He should have haggled harder over the price, not because he cared about the money, but because the moment the Whitfields thought they had gotten the upper hand, it only emboldened them to try to take further advantage.
Most of all, Roman blamed himself for giving them a second chance when they showed up with that fucking half-empty tanker—and for insisting on keeping the girl as collateral.
Disgusted with himself, he rolled over in the twisted tangle of bed linens, stifling a groan of frustration. There were so many other ways he could have made his point. Taken a pinkie finger off the kid, for instance—that would leave Ed with no doubt that he meant business. Hell, he'd probably already have the shipment sitting in the driveway, and the Whitfields would have learned a lesson.
You're too damn soft.
The denouncement rang in his head, leaving an uneasy feeling in his belly. He wasn't used to these thoughts of self-blame. Up until now, there had been no reason for them. Living on his own meant never having to question his own motivations.
Life was simple. If he needed something, he took it. If he wanted to do something, he did it. There was no need for reflection. No reason to weigh his actions against anyone else's.
No reason to find himself lacking in comparison.
No need to toss and turn all night, listening to the every move of a girl just beyond his door, breathing in her luscious scent, and questioning whether or not he'd gone too far by shouting at her when she'd simply been hungry.
Roman kicked off the covers in disgust and stared at the ceiling.
Right after he'd slammed the door on her, he'd listened to her eat like a starved coyote. Then she'd tiptoed around cleaning up after herself, wrapping the leftovers carefully and putting them away before returning to the sofa and covering herself with the blanket. From that moment on, she barely moved except to breathe.
That didn't mean that she had fallen asleep, though. That didn't happen until much later, after he'd endured hours of her emotions pouring out in a complex perfume that filled his cabin: anxiety, fear, determination, anger, and helplessness.
She flashed between emotions, quick and hard, each new one contradicting the last.
Roman tried his best to ignore her inner struggle, but somehow her conflict stirred a similar unease inside him. He didn't understand it. He sure as hell didn't want it. But it churned deep in his belly all the same.
There was something so alluring about the girl's complexity. Maybe he'd grown too used to his simple life, but her tangle of thoughts and emotions called out to him, an intriguing mystery begging to be solved.
What's worse, that intrigue didn't stop when she finally fell asleep.
Her honeysuckle scent continued to drift into his room, mixing a healthy dose of lust in with his curiosity, creating a downright irresistible elixir.
Roman groaned and pulled his pillow over his face. But it didn't help. The sounds and scents of Phoebe Whitfield still drifted through the cracks between the walls and doors, surrounding him, demanding his attention. Making it impossible for Roman to focus on anything but her.
Eventually, he stopped trying.
He tossed the pillow off the bed and slid his hand down to his already stiffening cock.
The moon spilled the last of its dreamy light into his room like silver dust as he gave in and started to stroke himself. Instead of trying to push her out of his head, he brought the vision of his hostage into sharp focus in his mind.
It wasn't hard. Phoebe Whitfield was beautiful, with hair like a dark cloud around her head and a strong, slender body that looked like it could go all night without a break. But it was the obvious intelligence in her pale green eyes that he found most arresting.
Maybe if she were a damned fool like the rest of her family, this would be easier. Maybe then Roman would have been able to ignore her, instead of rubbing one out before dawn.
Because no matter how fine a specimen of humanity a person might be, once they revealed themselves as a dipshit, Roman lost all interest in them. That, in fact, was why he'd chosen to settle here, where he could go weeks at a time without seeing another human: most people were just too damn disappointing to bother with.
But Roman wanted to do far more than bother Phoebe Whitfield. If it wasn't for his promise not to touch her, he doubted he would have gone to bed alone. Sure, he still probably would have been up at this ungodly hour, but it would be because he was still having his fill of her sweet body, not because he bubbling with sexual frustration.
Roman upped the
tempo of his strokes, imagining the taste of her tongue sliding against his, every bit as honey-sweet as her scent. Listening to the sound of her breathless sighs of pleasure against his ears. He had to bite his lower lip to stifle a low growl of pleasure as he shot a stream of hot come high into the air and across his crumpled sheets.
For a brief moment, the frustrated knots inside him relaxed…but it didn't last long. By the time Roman had readjusted himself on the mattress and closed his eyes, the longing had returned, twisting and coiling inside him. Creating an itch that he knew he couldn't scratch alone.
Damn it. Who was this girl, and why did she have to be so attractive? Why did she have to be so brave? Why did she have to be everything Roman had forgotten he desired?
How someone so intriguing had come from the Whitfield lineage, Roman would never know.
But at least that cheating bastard Ed Whitfield had enough sense to realize how special his daughter was. There was no doubt in Roman's mind that he would be back for her…this time with every last drop of gas he'd promised. There would be no more lies and no more games until the Whitfields got their girl back—and after that…well, after that, maybe he would finally be able to get some damn sleep.
Phoebe was awakened by the sound of the bedroom door crashing against the solid wood wall. She jolted upright, bracing herself to bolt.
She tried to shake off the dream she'd been in the midst of, but the hazy images of sleep still hung in her head, making it hard for her to get her bearings.
The Boundarylands. Roman's cabin. His couch.
Reality came in swift and hard as the last vestiges of sleep faded. Phoebe gripped the soft sofa cushions, planted her feet firmly, and took several deep breaths. She'd long ago learned that when faced with a threat, the best thing she could do was to collect herself so that she could act instead of reacting—something her father and brother never seemed to understand.
She knew she was going to have to turn and face the alpha barreling out his bedroom door. First, though, she took the time to marvel that she'd even managed to fall asleep at all.
She must have been more exhausted than she'd realized…both physically and emotionally.
But Phoebe guessed that was to be expected after doing the impossible and surviving a full day in the Boundarylands.
Now she just needed to get through another one…and another …and another. However many it took for her dad and Holden to figure out a way to fulfill their deal and get her out of here.
Phoebe had no idea how they'd manage it—especially now that they were utterly broke. But worrying about it wouldn't do any good. That problem was completely out of her control.
Her problem was the seven-foot-plus alpha who was storming through the room with a terrifying scowl etched into his face. He stopped in the kitchen, right in front of the stove, before looking over his shoulder at her. His jaw worked as he seemed to consider and reject a dozen different comments.
"I thought I already said you don't have to get up just because I do," he finally settled on.
Phoebe bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue, the one she would have unleashed without a second thought if Holden had tried to pull a stunt like that: "Yeah, 'cause it's so easy to sleep through all your banging around."
But she wasn't at home. And this growling giant sure as hell wasn't her good-for-nothing brother stumbling in after the bars closed. So Phoebe did the safe thing and kept her mouth shut.
But her silence didn't seem to placate the alpha, who for some reason kept glaring at her as he filled a kettle with water at the sink, the look in his dark eyes sharpening almost as if he could read her unspoken thoughts.
Phoebe didn't like the feeling. The men in her family were dense to the point of missing the most obvious cues. They'd no sooner guess—or even wonder—what she was thinking than pick up the damp towels they left on the bathroom floor.
But Roman seemed to be expecting some kind of response from her.
"Now's a good a time as any to get up," she settled on. It was bland. Non-committal.
Most importantly, it wasn't a lie.
Roman grunted and carried the kettle to the stove, placing it over the burner. She couldn't help noticing the dark circles underneath his eyes, or that he was moving a little more slowly this morning than he had yesterday.
Phoebe had spent too many sleepless nights of her own not to recognize the signs.
"I'm…sorry if I kept you up last night," she said stiffly.
Yesterday, he'd made it clear he wasn't looking for conversation, but she wasn't the one who'd spoken first this morning. Besides, surely an apology didn't count.
Roman only grunted as he tossed a few pieces of kindling into the cast-iron stove before lighting the fire. Several moments passed before he added, "I'm used to being alone. I'm sure by tonight, I'll adapt to your scent."
"I take it you don't get a lot of company all the way out here."
Phoebe instantly regretted her words when he slammed the door to the stove shut and stood up to his full height, anger radiating from him.
"You're not company," he snarled. "You're a hostage, and you'll do well to remember it."
Phoebe swallowed hard, wondering what caused the peculiar edge to his voice. It almost seemed as though he was reminding himself of that fact as much as he was reminding her. "Of course."
A long silence descended between them, one that another man might not be comfortable with. But Roman stared at her as though he'd damn well do it all day if he felt like it.
Like everything else he did, it made Phoebe intensely uncomfortable. She wasn't frightened, exactly…just stirred up. Piqued, like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. When he still didn't move a muscle, she busied herself with folding the blanket and laying it on the arm of the couch.
When she was finished, she chanced one more glance at the alpha and found that his gaze had taken on a thoughtful quality, as though he was trying to work something out in his mind. For all his menace, Roman wasn't giving off especially aggressive energy. He seemed more tired than anything as he waited for the water to boil.
Phoebe found herself empathizing. She was very familiar with that mixture of groggy and grumpy that came from restless nights. She'd spent plenty of them pacing the length of their small rental house, wondering if her dad and brother would return home from their latest run of illegal goods into the Boundarylands, or whether this would be the time the cops would come inform her of some bad news.
"Roman," she ventured carefully, smoothing down the front of her dress, "I can finish making coffee if you want to go back to bed for a few minutes."
He raised his head just far enough so his eyes met hers, and without thinking, Phoebe's fingers tightened on the back of the sofa. Something stirred deep inside her, something dark and unfamiliar.
"So, you figured out what to call me after all." Roman's expression was unreadable. "How?"
Phoebe cursed her carelessness, but she knew better than to even think about lying. "I found a letter with your name on it in a drawer."
His eyes narrowed further, their shade darkening to a deep cobalt blue. "Were you snooping?" he asked without inflection.
Phoebe did her best to answer with equal calm. "No. Just tidying up."
Roman stared at her a second longer before turning away, leaving Phoebe to wonder if she'd just dodged a bullet.
There was something in the way he looked at her—as though he was peeling back layers of skin until he reached her core—that was making her start to wonder if he could read her thoughts after all. His scrutiny made her want to squirm, as though she were being prodded with a thousand needles.
Or feathers. Could a person be prodded with feathers?
What the hell was wrong with her, anyway?
"Try a little harder not to let your eyes fall on anything else while you're tidying today," he said shortly.
Phoebe tried to refocus on the thought of another long day trapped inside the cabin. After the few chore
s that awaited her, she'd have nothing to do. Nothing but dwell on everything that could be going wrong on the outside. It would take a miracle to keep the worst of her doomsday thoughts at bay.
"What is it now?" he growled.
"What is…what?"
"That sound."
"I didn't make any sounds."
"Yes, you did. You…breathed weird."
Oh, for the love of God. "Forgive me for breathing," Phoebe snapped.
Roman lifted the pot of boiling water, and for a brief second, Phoebe was afraid he was about to toss it at her. Instead, he strode into the kitchen and set it on the counter while he got down two mugs and two filter contraptions that he filled with ground coffee from a glass jar. An intoxicating scent filled the air as he began pouring the hot water over the grounds, going slowly, alternating between the mugs.
When he'd filled them both, he set down the pot and turned to face her, his arms crossed. In that stance, the muscles in his shoulders and forearms stood out in high relief, and Phoebe's eyes widened at the impressive sight.
It was a small kitchen, sure, but Roman somehow seemed even bigger than he had yesterday.
"Apparently, we need to add another rule to your list," he said. "When I ask you a question, just fucking answer it."
Phoebe's chest shook a little as she struggled to exhale through her tightening throat. He hadn't actually asked her a question, but she wasn't about to point that out.
"Okay. Um…your house is…pretty clean already."
Roman lifted one eyebrow fractionally. "And…"
"And…it really doesn't need someone to clean it all day, every day."
His expression changed, tightening into grim disappointment. "Fucking Whitfields," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I should have known. Always trying to get out of work."
"No." Phoebe rushed to explain herself, coming around from the protection of the sofa, then stopping abruptly at the edge of the kitchen at his warning glare. "It's not that. I don't mind working for my keep. I don't mind working, period. It's just there's not enough to do in this cabin—just a handful of dishes and shelves that I already dusted twice yesterday."
Roman: The Boundarylands Omegaverse: M/F Alpha Omega Romance Page 4
