On The Edge

On The Edge
Chapter 281: On The Edge

Roman 

Randall. The name alone snapped whatever fragile restraint I had left.

I pushed off the bed so fast the room tilted for a second. Pain shot across my chest, sharp and aching, but it barely registered. All I could see was my brother’s face in my mind. All I could hear was Savannah’s slip.

He bought her a dress. For her. For my woman. How dare he? That creep. I know what his plan is. 

I took one step toward the door. Then another.

“Roman—”

Savannah moved quickly, placing herself between me and the exit. Her hands came up, palms pressing lightly against my chest as if she could physically hold me back. 

“Move,” I said. “Get out of my way, Sav.” My voice was low. Not loud. That dangerous quiet that came before something broke.

She shook her head. “No.”

I tried to step around her. She shifted with me. I reached for the handle. Her hand grabbed my wrist.

“Roman, stop.”

“Savannah,” I warned. “Step aside.” 

But she didn’t move. Her breathing had changed. It was shallow and uneven. Fear was there, yes, but there was something else too. Determination.

“I said move.”

“I won’t.”

I exhaled harshly and tried to push past her. She braced herself, small body holding its ground in front of mine. The absurdity of it would have been funny in another setting. She weighed nothing when compared with me. She should have been easy to move aside. 

But I would never manhandle her. 

“Savannah—”

“Enough!” The word broke out of her like something torn loose. “Stop it already!” 

I froze.

Her hands slid from my chest, but she didn’t step away. Instead, her shoulders began to tremble. Her face crumpled with an emotion so raw it stunned me into silence.

Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“You’re making this harder for me,” she choked out. “Do you even realize that? I'm trying my best here to understand you and make amends for the past!” 

The rage inside me faltered. “What—”

“I’m carrying your child!” she burst out. “Your child, Roman. And all you’ve done since you woke up is shout, threaten people, and scare me.”

“I’m trying,” she choked out, “I’m trying so hard to hold everything together and you keep— you keep tearing through everything like nothing matters except your anger.” She wiped at her face, but more tears followed.

The words struck harder than any accusation.

“You used to be gentle with me,” she continued, voice shaking. “You used to be patient. You used to listen. You used to speak softly. You used to look at me like I mattered more than whatever battle you were fighting.”

I stared at her, stunned.

She sank to her knees suddenly, right there on the floor, gathering the clothes Bella had dropped. Her hands trembled as she picked them up one by one, folding them blindly through tears.

“And now…” she whispered, “now it feels like you don’t even see me. Like I don’t matter unless I’m stopping you from hurting someone… including me. You've been yelling at me, Roman. And it's not fair.” 

Something inside me cracked wide open.

The anger drained out of me so fast it left a hollow ache in its place.

I dropped down beside her immediately. “Sav… no. No, don’t cry, my love.”

My voice sounded foreign to my own ears. Soft. Desperate. Stripped of everything harsh.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I said, reaching for her hands. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I swear I didn’t.”

She tried to pull away, but I held on gently.

“I can’t control it,” I admitted quietly. “The anger. It’s like it’s… always there, boiling. Waiting. I don’t know how to shut it off.”

She looked at me through tear-blurred eyes. “Then try,” she whispered. “Try for me.”

The plea was simple. Devastatingly simple.

“For us,” she added, her hand drifting instinctively to her stomach.

I followed the motion.

My child. Our child.

The weight of that reality settled deep into my bones. “I will,” I said before I could question whether I was capable. “I promise.”

Her expression changed instantly. The tears didn’t vanish, but warmth returned to her gaze. Relief. Trust. Hope.

She threw herself into my arms without warning. Her body fit against mine like it always had. Her lips found mine in a kiss that wasn’t hesitant or shy. 

It was grateful. Emotional. Alive. And electricity shot through me.

My hands wrapped around her instinctively, pulling her closer. The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the taste of her mouth. I deepened the kiss without thinking, hunger rising fast and fierce.

She responded for a moment — then pulled back abruptly, breathless. “Roman,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to mine, her fingers tracing lightly along my jaw. “Not yet.”

Frustration flared instantly. “I know,” I muttered.

She smiled softly, brushing her fingers through my hair. “You need to heal first.”

I exhaled sharply but didn’t argue. Not after everything she had just said. Not after what I had promised.

She helped me back onto the bed and retrieved the tray of food. The aroma hit me then, reminding me that I was actually hungry. I didn't even realize. 

“Eat,” she said gently. She sat beside me, lifting a spoon toward my mouth.

I accepted it reluctantly. The act felt strangely intimate yet strange. Domestic. Peaceful in a way I didn’t trust. Almost like I couldn't do it myself. 

Halfway through, I slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into my lap.

She gasped softly, steadying the tray. “Roman—”

“If I can’t have you the way I want,” I murmured near her ear, “I’m making the most of what I can. I'm taking what I'm allowed, my love.”

She gave me a look—half warning, half amusement, but she didn’t move away. Instead she adjusted slightly, straddling my lap more securely so she could continue feeding me.

The contact was torture.

Her warmth seeped through fabric and skin alike. Every small movement of hers, every shift of her weight, sent awareness rippling through me in waves I refused to acknowledge aloud. 

Then she laughed quietly, knowing exactly what she was doing to me. The sound loosened something in my chest that had been tight. Fucking temptress. 

She continued feeding me, her movements slower now, her body warm against mine. Every brush of her breasts against my chest, every grind of her pussy against my cock, sent a fresh wave of awareness through me.

When the tray was empty, she set it aside and stood, offering her hand. “Come,” she said. “Let me help you shower.”

I took her hand without protest.

The bathroom filled with steam as warm water began to run. She moved carefully, helping me clean without wetting the bandages, exhibiting a certain practiced gentleness. Her touch was clinical, focused—but her breathing betrayed the tension simmering beneath the surface.

I watched her the entire time. And she knew. Of course she knew. 

Her hands moved carefully, cleansing, avoiding injuries, attentive to every reaction. The quiet between us was thick with something heavy.

When she finished, she reached for a towel. But I caught her wrist. She looked up.

For a moment we simply stared at each other. No anger. No fear. Only intensity. Then I stepped forward, backing her gently against the wall. Her breath caught.

My lips found her neck. A kiss. Then another. Followed by the faintest brush of teeth against sensitive skin. Her fingers tightened against my shoulders.

The room seemed to shrink around us. Everything else disappeared. 

I breathed her in, memorizing the warmth of her pulse beneath my mouth. She didn’t pull away.

Her hand drifted upward, resting against my chest as if to feel my heartbeat steady beneath her palm.

The air between us vibrated with everything we weren’t saying. Everything we weren't doing. 

When I finally lifted my head, her eyes were already on mine — dark, luminous, full of something that felt dangerously close to surrender.

Neither of us spoke. The moment stretched painfully, suspended, fragile and electric.

And that was where everything hung—balanced on the edge of what came next.