Page 25 of Veil of the Past
I feel a sting behind my eyes, but I blink it away, my hands tightening into fists under the table. “So, what? You just want to pretend it didn’t happen? Go back to the way things were?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, his jaw working, his fingers tapping against the table. “Maybe we should,” he says finally, his voice low, almost defeated. “Maybe it’s better that way.”
I swallow hard, feeling like shards of glass are caught in my throat. “Better forwho, Romiro? For you? Because it doesn’t feel better for me.”
He looks at me then, his expression conflicted, his eyes searching mine. “I don’t know, Alessia. I don’t know what to do with this… with us. We’ve been friends forever. I don’t want to lose that.”
A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. “Right. Because staying friends is so easy when you’re pretending you don’t feel … something more.”
He flinches, just slightly, but enough for me to notice. “I’m trying to protect us,” he says quietly. “Trying to keep us from ruining something good.”
“Maybe it’s already ruined,” I shoot back, my voice sharper than I intended. The words hang heavy between us, and I immediately wish I could take them back.
He leans back, his expression hardening. “Maybe it is,” he murmurs, and the pain in his voice cuts deeper than I expected.
I look down, my vision blurring, my chest tight. “Fine,” I whisper. “If that’s how you feel.”
Greta approaches, setting down a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of us, the smell delicious, but I suddenly have no appetite. She gives us a small, concerned smile before retreating, leaving us alone again.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I stare at the food, my hands trembling slightly in my lap. I feel raw, exposed, like every nerve in my body is on edge. The silence stretches and once I’m sure that he won’t speak up, I pick up my phone and get up. His head snaps up, his eyes narrowing on me. “Where are you going?” he asks me.
“Home.” I keep my answer short. His brows knit and he looks confused.
“We haven’t finished talking,” he says.
Biting my lip I say, “Well, to me it seems like you’ve made up your mind, you seem to think that the other night was a mistake. So … I’m going home.” I inhale deeply after my long-winded rant, and I try to get out of the booth, but Romiro moves faster than me and blocks my exit. His eyes are narrowed, a frown settling on his face, and he looks as if hes been punched. I don’t wait for him to move out the way. I shuffle toward the end of the booth until we’re chest to chest. “Move, Romiro. I’m leaving.”
“The fuck you are. We’re. Not. Done. Talking,” he grits out.
“Well, to me,that”—I pause pointing between us—“seemed like sitting in awkward silence. Not talking.”
He lets out a sigh before running a hand down his face and saying, “Listen, I’m sorry. I was trying to think of what to say.”
I hold up my hand. “It’s fine, Romiro. You don’t have to say anything. Since you’re not sure about it, we’re better off as friends. I can go back to the arranged dates my Nonna and Mamma love so much.”
Oh. He doesn’t like that. His face twists into a vicious snarl before he moves into my personal space. “Oh, so now you think that we’re better off as friends? You think you can go on your little dates, huh, Red?”
His face is now inches from mine. “Remember what I did toFrankie?” He waits for an answer so I nod, and he continues, “I can make each of your littledatesdisappear like they never existed. Don’t test me, Red,” he warns.
“I don’t know what makes you think that I would ever allow you to control who I date, but that won’t happen,” I taunt, and his amber eyes move over my features, taking in the defiance I am sure is etched into the contours of my face.
Romiro lifts his hands, and they cradle my face, his thumb brushing lightly over my freckled cheeks. He leans in, his lips brushing over my own as he whispers, “Who said I need anyone’s permission to stop your so-calleddates.” Before I can say anything back, his lips smash against mine, biting, tugging, and bruising, the taste of him filling my senses. He pulls back slightly, his breath hot against my ear. "Come with me," he whispers, his voice low, thick with something dark and hungry.
He takes my hand and tugs me out of the booth. My heart pounds in my chest, a wild, erratic rhythm that matches the intensity in his eyes. I don’t ask where we’re going; I already know. He leads me past the empty tables, past the lingering scent of coffee and pancakes, until we reach the narrow hallway at the back of the diner.
The light flickers overhead, casting long silhouettes against the white tile walls. I glance up at him, and there’s a wild, almost desperate look in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine. Without a word, he pushes the bathroom door open, pulling me inside with a rough urgency that makes my breath catch.
The door to the bathroom slams shut behind us with a force that rattles the tiles on the walls. Romiro’s hand is at the small of my back, pressing me roughly against the cool, white tiles. His warm, labored breath brushes against my ear. I can feel the tension in his grip with how his fingers dig into my skin, almost bruising, like he’s holding on for dear life.
There’s no softness in his eyes now, only a dark, feral hunger that sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate. His mouth crashes against mine, hard, his teeth biting down on my lower lip with just enough force to make me gasp. I taste the metallic tang of blood, but he doesn’t relent; he presses harder, his lips demanding, punishing. And in between kisses I say, “We shouldn’t do this. Not here.”
“No?” he asks before lifting me effortlessly, shoving me onto the cold, unforgiving edge of the porcelain sink. My back slams against the mirror with a sharp thud, the pain radiating through my spine, but I barely notice it. His hands are already moving, rough and urgent, sliding up my thighs, pulling my work pants over my hips.
“Do you still think that we should be friends?” he snarls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Think we can go back to acting normal, pretending that you don’t crave me as much as I crave you?”
I try to catch my breath, try to speak, but he grabs my jaw with one hand, his fingers digging into my skin, forcing me to look at him. “Answer me,” he demands, his eyes blazing with something dark, something I’ve never seen in him before.
“No,” I gasp out, my heart racing. I don’t know if it’s fear or desire coursing through my veins, but I don’t care. I need this. I need him. I grab onto his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, and he smirks, his grip tightening.
