Sinking Lower
Chapter 108: Sinking Lower
Roman
I probably look like a stalker the way I lie here, eyes open in the middle of the night, watching the rise and fall of her chest as if the rhythm could hold me together. Savannah. My Savannah. She’s tucked against me like she belongs in the curve of my arm, her lips curved in that soft, unconscious smile that wrecks me every damn time.
She’s happy. That smile is proof enough.
And God help me—I’m happy too. No, not just happy. I’m fucking euphoric.
She said she loved me. She said it with trembling lips and a heartbeat that kicked like a drum. The words are still burned into me, branded in places no flame could touch.
I can’t stop replaying them, over and over, like a song I can’t get out of my head. I love you.
Do you know what that does to a man like me? A man who spent years biting his tongue, swallowing his want, playing the good friend, the loyal shadow, while every cell in his body screamed to touch, to claim, to take? To kiss her?
Five years I kept myself caged. Five years of pretending I didn’t want her in ways no “best friend” should want his so-called bestie. Five years of watching her smile at other men, fuck them, confide in me about them, break down in front of me, and I couldn’t so much as breathe wrong or I’d scare her away.
Brother. Fucking brother. The thought makes my skin crawl. Maybe that’s what I was to her once. What she saw me as. The safe option. The dependable one. The steady one.
Well, her so-called “best friend” has had his mouth on her. Her legs around me. Her taste still clings to me like sin I’ll never confess. And God, I love every bit of her.
And if that makes me a bastard, then so be it.
She stirs, a soft whimper slipping from her lips. My gut clenches instantly, eyes scanning her for the smallest sign of discomfort. She does this sometimes, caught in dreams, but tonight the sound grates sharper.
Nightmare. I know it before I even breathe. I hate that. I hate that she dreams in shadows. That even in her sleep she can’t escape the claws of her past.
Of him.
I shift the comforter higher, brush her hair from her face, fingers lingering just to feel the satin strands. She burrows deeper into me, sighing like I’m the only thing anchoring her. Maybe I am.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because I’m carrying a secret that could burn every ounce of peace right out of her. A truth so jagged it’ll shred her heart in ways I swore never to allow.
And it's the truth that her father isn’t Julius Hart. He isn’t the man she clings to with some pitiful thread of loyalty. And I’m the one who has to tell her.
The one who has to tell her that her biological father is a… Fuck! I can't even say it nor think about it.
The thought makes bile crawl up my throat. How the fuck do I say that to her? How do I open my mouth and take the light out of her eyes? I’ve spilled blood, broken bones, ripped men apart without blinking—but telling Savannah the truth about her parentage? That terrifies me more than any blade at my throat.
Because she’ll cry. And God, I can’t stand her tears. Her tears undo me in ways knives never could. Every time I see them, I want to slaughter whoever caused them. But this time, it won’t be some nameless bastard or her useless father. It’ll be me. I’ll be the one who broke her.
I clench my jaw so hard it aches.
I should tell her soon. Every day I delay is another layer of betrayal waiting to explode. And she’ll hate me when she finds out I kept it from her. She’ll look at me with those stormy eyes, and instead of love, there’ll be fury. Disappointment. That’s the one I fear most.
Fuck.
And then there’s Julius. That weak excuse of a man, rotting away in his hate and lies. He’s the next name on my kill list, but Savannah—my sweet, stubborn girl—still protects him. She doesn’t want me to hurt him. If I so much as put my hand on his throat, she’ll burn me alive with her anger.
So I wait. And every second I let him live, I hate myself a little more.
Funny. We both have fathers who failed us. The difference is mine is a monster with too much power in his veins. Hers is a coward with none.
I press a kiss to her temple, careful not to wake her, then slowly slip my arm out from under her. She groans faintly at the loss but cuddles the pillow I slide in place, like she’s clinging to me anyway.
How fucking adorable.
For a moment, I just stand there. Watching her. Memorizing the curve of her cheek, the slope of her neck, the way her body curls in instinctive trust. I want to chain time right here. Lock this image inside me forever.
But peace is temporary. Always temporary.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I leave the bedroom, the ghostly silence of midnight swallowing my footsteps down the hall. Every corner of the house feels like it’s listening, holding its breath as I dial the number I haven’t called in years. Six? Seven? Maybe a decade. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve tried to carve his voice out of my memory. Without progress.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, it connects.
“Roman.” His voice is smooth, controlled, layered over the sound of keyboards clacking. He doesn’t even sound surprised, yet he says… “What a pleasant surprise. Didn’t know you still had my number.”
His tone makes my skin itch.
“I’m not here to mend bridges,” I snap, cutting through his smugness. “What business did you have with Asher Kingston?”
There’s a pause. A beat of silence broken only by the crackle of the fireplace in Blackwood Manor. I can picture it, the dragon-headed mantle, ancient and grotesque. He still sits there, surrounded by wealth and rot, like a king over ashes.
“Is this your way of returning to the family?” he asks.
My hand tightens on the phone. “Is this your way of sinking lower? Associating with rapists now?”
“We’re all the same definition. Different spellings,” he drawls.
“Asher Kingston was a fucking rapist,” I snarl, voice rising. “Did you know that? Imagine my surprise when he mentioned my father in a familiar sense. Do you have no limits? How disgusting can you be?!”
He chuckles, the sound cold and infuriating to me. “The woman he raped is your flavor of the moment? What a small world we reside in.” I hear the squeak of leather as he adjusts. “She's quite an interesting woman. Very bold… Very disrespectful.”
The words punch the air out of my chest. My stomach drops, rage flooding faster than I can control. “You knew?”
“Rape,” he says slowly, like he's tasting the word on his tongue. “That’s a convenient accusation for women who regret a night of sex.”
My vision tunnels. “You must be out of your mind to think she’d lie about something like that—”
“Be careful, my boy,” he interrupts. “That girl you’ve chosen? She’s trouble. Women like her always are. One day you’ll find that accusation turned on you.”
My pulse spikes. “You make me sick,” I spit, voice shaking with hatred. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were human. I can’t believe I didn’t see what you really are from the get go.”
“And what is that?”
“A monster.”
He chuckles again, like the word amuses him. “Believe it or not, you’ve always been my replica after Ryan. You take after me in more ways than you realize.”
“We are nothing alike,” I growl.
“You look everything like your father, Roman.”
The words slam into me. My chest tightens. My bones feel carved out. Those words haunted me. Chilled me to my fucking bone. It came in and settled heavily on my chest, pressing down on me like dead weight.
“I look nothing like you,” I say, voice raw. “I would never dirty my hands with the blood of the woman I love.”
Silence.
Then his voice shifts, rougher, and more defensive. “I did not kill your mother. It was a high-risk pregnancy. She knew that. She understood that things could go wrong.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me! I’m not a child anymore!” I roar, pacing the office like a caged animal. “You don't get to spin stories to save yourself.”
Memories claw at me, unwanted, but I crush them down. The night of celebration. The laughter. Then the blood.
“She wanted that child.” He insisted. “I couldn't stop her because she was excited—”
“You trapped her!” The accusation rips out of me. “You gave her no choice!”
“I did no such thing,” he snaps. “I loved your mother. She knew I did.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter, because the irony tastes like poison. “Loved her?” My voice cracks with rage. “Is that what you call it? Love? Watching your pregnant wife bleed out while carrying your child, just so you can play the grieving politician and win the public's affection, is your definition of love, Father? Marrying my girlfriend was your definition of love too? Bringing home multiple bastard children to Blackwood Manor is your way of showing love?”
The silence that follows is a void. Heavy. Dangerous. I’m trembling, jaw locked, every muscle ready to shatter.
On the other end of the line, he finally exhales, slow, deliberate. “Careful, Roman,” he murmurs. “Careful which ghosts you disturb. You might not like the haunt. Do not speak on matters you know nothing about.”
Then the line goes dead.
I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, heart pounding so loud it deafens me. My hand shakes, rage burning through my veins, grief eating at what’s left.
I slam the phone down hard enough to rattle the desk. My reflection in the dark window stares back—haunted, savage, not a son, not a lover. Just a man built from ruins.
My father thinks I’m his mirror. But I swear on Savannah’s life that I’ll never be him.
Never.
I drag a hand over my face, force myself to breathe. To not storm back into the bedroom and wake her with this poison. She deserves peace, even if it kills me to keep her in the dark.
I glance down the hall, to where she sleeps, safe and soft and untouched by the horrors I carry.
One day, I’ll have to tell her the truth. About Julius. About my father. About Dahlia. About everything.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I'll let her dream.