The Marriage (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 3) Bethany-Kris (read this if txt) 📖

Roman to actually do what he wanted.

That’s not how any of this worked.

“Where are you going?” Marky asked

Roman shrugged, throwing his hands wide. “It’s over. It’s fucking over, man. I thought I could save her, but I can’t.”

Or was he talking about himself?

Hell.

Even he didn’t know.

*

It felt like an entire day had passed when Roman woke up next. He couldn’t remember anything from the previous night, but he woke up in the same jeans and button-down shirt that he’d been wearing the night before.

Alone.

The last thing he was able to bring to mind was going to the place where he knew they’d hand a baggy over to him with no questions asked. Just the sight of his face alone would guarantee him his drug of choice.

He was still Little Odessa’s Devil, after all.

Spoiled beyond rotten.

Unquestioned, and unchallenged.

After that, everything was a haze.

Did Marky show up? Yeah, he did remember that. Everything after, though? Roman couldn’t be sure.

Did they drive around for hours?

Did he steal a car?

Who the fuck knew.

Roman couldn’t remember anything.

Somehow, he’d ended up in his own bed in his loft. The same one the cops had raided in Odessa before he’d been sent to Chicago. Fuck, he missed that place like nobody knew.

For that, he was grateful to Marky. This was exactly the reason why he’d texted his friend. Even if the prick did feel some kind of way about Roman’s drug use, he’d still watch his back no matter what.

Sitting up in bed, Roman scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t trimmed his beard in days, leaving his face dry and rough under his touch. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he took a shower or changed out of these clothes.

Had he put them on yesterday?

Or the day before?

They reeked of alcohol and cigarettes either way, and he couldn’t ignore the disgust he felt at himself as he tried to pretend like the room wasn’t spinning in his line of vision.

Jesus Christ.

Roman didn’t bother to move at that point. He needed several minutes before he could get out of bed, and face the damn day.

It was what it was.

In the shower—he stood under a steady, beating stream of hot water. It stung his skin, pinking it from the heat, just the way he liked it. When he placed his hands on the cold tiles, his knuckles hurt, reminding him that unfortunately ...

Well, he was still very much alive.

You can fix that, you know. It doesn’t matter when you’re high. Nothing matters when you’re high, Roman.

Just like that, his monster was back. Gnawing on his shoulder, clawing at the back of his brain. He thought about the sweet relief a pill would bring—one that would take away the pain, and keep the high going. By tonight, he could take a little something else to keep him from falling asleep if he didn’t want to dream.

It would be easy.

A little something—anything—to keep his mind off the fact that he still hadn’t spoken to Karine.

Once out of the shower, he changed into fresh clothes, but didn’t bother to take the time to trim his beard or even wrap his swollen hand that ached even more when he was out of the heat.

Roman’s mind was on one thing—making it all go away.

But the smell coffee halted those plans, for the moment, and he stepped out of his room, and peered down the hall. Through the glass wall that made up the loft of the garage, he could see Marky down below.

“You want some coffee?” he called up when he noticed Roman descending the stairs.

“What time is it?”

“Too late to wish you good morning,” Marky replied.

At least, his friend was less grumpy than he had been the previous night.

“I’m heading out, actually,” Roman declared, still doing up the buttons on his shirt.

“To where?”

“You my warden or something now?”

Marky wouldn’t approve of the pills he planned to go find, but at the same time, Roman didn’t feel like he owed the man shit. He owed no one nothing.

Except Karine.

“I need you to stay on track,” Marky said. “For Karine’s sake. You remember? Your wife who is currently receiving treatment for her mental health condition. A choice you made for her, Roman.”

Hearing her name was like a punch in the gut.

He didn’t need the reminder.

God.

“She doesn’t want to talk to me,” he said under his breath, leaning against the railing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Give her time.”

“She fucking hates me. What part of that do you not understand?”

“The part where you seem to forget you’re not a child, I guess. You don’t get to just act out because you’re mad or hurt. She needs help. You don’t. You have the ability to help yourself. So just fucking do that, man.”

Marky stood steady and calm as he delivered those words—a final blow—to Roman. He wouldn’t be able to physically stop him from going out and doing whatever the fuck he wanted if it came down to it, but he also didn’t need to.

He’d called Roman out—that was more than enough.

Rightfully so, too.

It pissed him off like nothing else, but Marky made damn good points. Roman glared at his friend for a full minute before he walked over to the coffee machine, and poured himself a cup.

NINE

Demyan found himself lost in his thoughts and unwilling to open his eyes after waking from a night of restless, non-existent sleep because it meant a new day. Of uncertainties, of exhaustion ... of worry.

He wasn’t that man—decades of position and power had allowed him an arrogance a man like him needed to be who he was. So, when he found himself worrying, well, it was hard to swallow.

There was too much to do.

Who could sleep?

With Dima and his men making their presence known in New York, Demyan moved to protect his assets and keep the business running smoothly first. He hadn’t spoken to Leonid yet, the man who was supposed to have taken over as the new Chicago boss, despite Demyan’s