My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(90)

In the rare times he showed me kindness, he despised himself for it.

He scowled, misreading my longing stare as an accusing one. “I thought you wanted to get rid of him.”

“I did.”

“Why are you looking at me, then?”

“Don’t I normally look at you?”

“Only when you want to be eaten out or you’ve lost your credit card and need a new one.”

Lord, was that true?

I’d been so busy comparing him to Shakespeare’s love-struck character that I’d failed to notice I hadn’t earned any Wife of the Year awards, either.

“Well, I’m looking at you now,” I snapped. “And I like what I’m seeing.”

He jerked his head back. “Are you drunk?”

“Can’t I pay you a compliment?”

“I’m the one who does the payments in this relationship. Whatever you’re doing, stop it immediately.”

Somehow, our gazes had tangled so thoroughly, I didn’t know how to pull mine away.

He retreated first with a shake of his head. “I’m going to the gym.”

I would’ve followed him. Truly. But exercise equipment resembled distant cousins of the guillotine. Not my fault I’d entered this world with sky-high self-preservation instincts.

I pouted. “You’re always going to the gym.”

“That’s right.” Romeo threw the fridge open, snatched a water bottle, and downed the entire thing in one go. “I want to see a greater age than thirty-three, and your sole mission in life seems to be wearing me down.”

He crushed the plastic in his fist, tossing it into the recycling bin.

“Will you come to my room afterward?”

I immediately regretted the question. It sounded clingy.

I never waited for Romeo to arrive. He simply did. And on the rare occasion he didn’t, I pretended not to notice.

Romeo turned to me fully, taking me in. “Why?”

Okay. I could’ve done without the incredulity.

“Maybe I’ve missed you,” I muttered.

“I should hope not. We may not be enemies anymore, Shortbread, but we will never be lovers.” He brushed his shoulder against mine as he exited the kitchen. “Make sure Hettie cleans all the melted chocolate from the counter. Heads will roll if I find an ant inside my mansion.”





After Romeo clubbed me with the truth stick, I drew a bath to scrub his words off my skin.

I wanted us to be a couple. A real one. Not sure when that had happened, but now that I did, any other outcome would end with devastation.

The second blow of the day came in the form of a pink spot splattered on my underwear. Big, bold, and unmistakable.

And a day early.

I held the cotton to the light as if any doubt existed as to what it was. The sight sliced me open. Misery poured in through the gaping wound.

The stain felt like betrayal. Like grief and self-loathing.

I introduced the fabric to my sharpest scissors, shoved the tattered remains into the trash, and yanked the bathtub plug, refusing to fester in my own blood.

If I didn’t smell like a brothel from this morning, I would’ve forgone a shower entirely. Instead, I made it quick, shrugging into my most comfortable, childish pajamas and crawling beneath my comforter.

The third blow came when I willed myself to cry, failing to conjure the tears that had eluded me all my life.

I needed relief. In any form it would come.

Yet, once again, my body failed me.

In tears.

In fertility.

Fine. It wasn’t my eggs’ fault that they suffered a sperm drought. I just preferred not to acknowledge the simple truth.

Romeo refused to have sex with me. No matter my advances. No matter every delicious, toe-curling, orgasm-inducing, almost-sex activity we engaged in.

The beginnings of a storm teased my ankles, curling around them.

My father’s unannounced visit. My husband’s rejection. My period. My general sex-free existence. They swirled together, gaining force, brewing into something sinister and dangerous.

So, hours later, when the door wailed open, I knew the visit would not end well.

Romeo never knocked, and I never cared.

Only, tonight, I did.

His shadow glided across the sleek darkness. He stopped just above me, the scent of him—of spearmint, cologne, and potent man—sailing into my nostrils.

He came.

Because I’d asked him to? Because he missed me? Or because his needs required fulfilling?

I never could tell.

Romeo trailed his knuckles along his favorite constellation of freckles on my cheek.

“What’s on the menu tonight, Mrs. Costa?” The husky, low tone seeped straight through me. “Another sixty-nine, or can I finally fuck your tight little asshole?”

At his words, the storm transformed into a hurricane, festering somewhere deep below and rising to the surface.

Unlike the natural calamity, its speed and ire didn’t weaken upon hitting the ground.

It increased. Tenfold.

I slapped his touch away. “Get out of my room and never come back.”

I hate you. I hate you with everything I have in me and more.

Lord, had it always hurt this much to breathe?

It was true, what they say. There’s no law of conservation for love. You don’t get what you give.