Chapter 316
Lexy’s Point Of View
The absurdity of it… Roman passing notes to anyone, Roman needing help with anything, only made it worse. He was the last person on earth who needed rescuing, and yet here he was, playing the hero as though it suited him.
The words had exploded out of me, my face instantly bursting into a furious, bright crimson blush that I knew he could see even in the dim library light. “Shorty? Shorty?! You absolute asshole p>
I turned around in his grip, my hands coming up to strike his chest with as much force as my teenage arms could muster, feeling the futility of it even as I did it. The solid wall of muscle barely registered my blows, and that made me angrier still. My knuckles ached from the impact, though he didn’t so much as flinch. “Let go of me! Put me down right now p>
He hadn’t let go. His grip on my waist had only tightened, lifting me just enough so that our eyes were level. The effortless strength in that gesture had been undeniable, and I’d hated how aware of it I became, how my body seemed to betray my mind by noticing the warmth of his hands through the thin fabric of my shirt.
He wore that insufferable, crooked smirk on his face – the one that made every girl in our grade lose her mind, but only made me want to kick him in the shins. The book dangled loosely in his other hand, just out of my reach, and I could tell he was savoring every second of my frustration. His confidence bordered on theatrical, as if he’d rehearsed this exact scenario in his mind, down to the exact angle of his smirk and the precise moment he’d lift me off my feet.
“You know, a normal person usually says ’thank you’ when someone saves them from a concussion,” Roman murmured, his dark eyes glittering with that dangerous, playful light that always preceded trouble, the corner of his mouth twitching upward and betraying his amusement.
My pride flared hot in my chest, spreading like wildfire through my veins. “I didn’t ask for your help, Roman! I had it under control!” I snapped, pushing against his shoulders, though it felt like trying to move a brick wall. The solid muscle beneath my palms hadn’t budged an inch. My hands might as well have been pressing against granite. “Give me my book and unhand me before I call the principal p>
“The principal is currently in a meeting with Jaxx’s parents,” he replied smoothly, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, his breath warm against my cheek. The scent of his cologne… something woodsy and expensive that I’d never admit I noticed, wrapped around me like an invisible net, pulling tighter the longer he lingered. “We have at least twenty minutes. Tell you what… I’ll give you the book, and I’ll let you go. But it’s going to cost you p>
My heart hammered against my ribs, though I told myself it was purely from anger. The rational part of my brain screamed warnings I refused to acknowledge, drowned out by something hotter and far more reckless. “Cost me what? I don’t have any money for your stupid schemes p>
“I don’t want your money, Lexy.” His voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and deliberate, as if we were sharing secrets in the dark. His gaze fell to my mouth for a lingering, agonizing second before snapping back to my eyes, and something in that look made my stomach flip. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of us, the library fading into insignificance, the rows of dusty shelves and distant chatter of other students disappearing entirely. “Kiss me p>
My brain completely stopped working. All coherent thought evaporated like morning mist. Heat flooded my face so fast I felt like my skin was on fire, spreading down my neck and across my chest in waves of mortification. The vulnerability of that reaction only made me angrier, fueling a defensive rage I wielded like armor, the only shield I had left against the humiliating pull I felt toward him. “You… you pervert! You disgusting, arrogant jerk! Let me go p>
Roman only smirked wider, entirely unfazed by my insults. If anything, he seemed to enjoy them, as though my fury was the most entertaining thing he’d witnessed all week. He pulled me even closer, our torsos pressing together until I could feel the steady, calm beat of his heart against my own frantic pulse. The contrast was maddening… his composure against my chaos, his control against my unraveling, and I despised how badly I wanted to close the distance between us just to prove I couldn’t be shaken.
“You humor me, Little Doe. You really do.” His thumb traced an absent circle against my hip, a gesture so casual yet so intimate it stole my breath and left me dizzy. “Everyone else tries so hard to please me, but you? You look at me like I’m something you found on the bottom of your shoe.” There was almost admiration in his voice, a note of genuine fascination that made the situation even more confusing, as though my disdain were a puzzle he intended to solve.
“Because you are!” I shrieked, finally channeling every ounce of frustration into one massive shove against his chest, my palms burning from the effort and my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
He let me go then, but only because he chose to. The distinction was clear in the lazy way he stepped back, completely in control, as if he’d been the one to decide when this encounter would end. He laughed… that rich, low sound that I’d heard in my dreams more times than I cared to admit, as I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over my own feet again, my coordination completely abandoning me under the weight of his gaze.
I snatched the history book from his hand, pressed it hard against my chest like a shield, and ran out of that library corridor as fast as my legs could carry me. The sound of his amusement echoed behind me, following me down the hallway, into my nightmares, and apparently into the next decade of my life. Even now, I could recall the burning humiliation that had chased me all the way home that day, settling into my bones like something permanent.
Now, standing in the cold, dim reality of the Houston parking lot ten years later, that memory felt entirely too fresh. Too vivid. Too real. The phantom heat of his hand on my waist felt alive again, as if no time had passed at all, and it made me furious, as though the intervening decade had done nothing to dull the sharp edges of that humiliation.
Furious at him for showing up unannounced, for disrupting the careful life I’d built, brick by brick, over years of discipline and distance. Furious at myself for still remembering every detail of that day with such crystalline clarity, for preserving it like some precious artifact when I should have buried it long ago, deep enough that it could never claw its way back to the surface.
I glared at him, my knuckles white as I held my scattered belongings against my side. The exhaustion from my meeting had evaporated, replaced by a raw, survivalist energy that thrummed through my veins like electricity. Every nerve ending was alive, alert, ready, as if my body remembered this particular threat even when my mind tried to deny it.
This was fight or flight, and I’d learned long ago that running from Roman Ashford only encouraged him. It gave him exactly what he wanted… proof that he could still affect me, still make me lose my composure, still reduce me to the flustered teenager I thought I’d left behind years ago.
“I’m going to ask you one last time.” My voice dropped into a cold, professional register that I used when dealing with the most difficult clients, the ones who thought they could intimidate me into submission. I’d perfected this tone over years of corporate battles, honed it until it became second nature, a weapon I wielded without thinking. “What are you doing here, Roman? This isn’t high school. You can’t just corner me in a dark parking lot and expect me to run away crying.” The words came out sharp, each one a carefully aimed dart.
Roman chuckled again, but this time, the playful smirk faded into something deeper, something intensely serious that made the air between us grow incredibly heavy. The shift in his demeanor was palpable, like watching storm clouds roll in across a summer sky, the light in his eyes dimming into something unreadable. He set the pineapple juice down on the roof of my car with deliberate care, the gesture almost reverent, then straightened up to his full height, towering over me just like he used to.
But there was something different now… a weight in his expression that hadn’t been there before, a gravity that spoke of experiences I knew nothing about, years I hadn’t witnessed and couldn’t begin to imagine. Something that looked almost like regret, or perhaps longing, shadowed his features, softening the hard lines of his face into something almost unfamiliar.
“You wound me, princess.” The words came out softly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. I felt trapped in his gaze, pinned like a butterfly under glass, every defense I’d built suddenly feeling flimsy and inadequate. There was no mockery in his tone now, no teasing lilt. Just raw honesty that made my chest tighten and my defenses waver despite my best efforts.
He took a breath, and I watched his jaw work as if he were choosing his next words carefully, weighing each one for its impact. The silence stretched between us, taut as a wire, charged with something I didn’t dare name. In that moment, he looked vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before, and it terrified me more than his confidence ever had, because vulnerability from Roman Ashford felt like an entirely new kind of danger.
“I came for you p>