Page 187 of Dance of Defiance

“How…” He swallows. “What you mean bystop.”

“You have a shitty relationship with alcohol, and I don’t see that ever changing because it doesn’t for literallyanyonewith an addiction to alcohol. So for your own health, and forus, I want you to stop.” I lock eyes with him. “Completely.”

Roman inhales slowly, looking at the glass in his hand again. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Prove it. You get to pick: booze, or me.”

Anger flashes in his eyes. “Fuck you, this isn’t fair.”

“Personal boundaries are perfectly fair,” I throw back. “Remember, I’m giving you a choice.”

Roman sets his glass down softly on the ground, lets go of it, and turns to me. He inhales and exhales slowly again, his throat working.

“It’s booze, or you?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Roman suddenly grabs me, and before I know what’s happening, he’s kissing me hard even as he starts to tremble and shake.

Fuck.

“Hey,” I growl, wrapping my arms around him. “You’ve got this.”

“I’m scared,” he chokes, his breath hitching as his forehead presses to mine. “Val, I…I’m fuckingscared. I…alcohol is my?—”

“I know,” I whisper, holding him tight. “But I’m going to help you. I’m going to be there.” Our foreheads are still pressed together as I raise my eyes to his, cradling him. “I’ll always be there, wreckage.”

His body trembles again. Then he nods, exhaling slowly.

“I—I don’t know where to start?—”

“You start withmebecoming your new drug of choice,” I murmur.

He smiles weakly, his eyes misty as they lock with mine. “And after that?”

I smile as I pull him into my lap, letting his knees go to either side of my hips as I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight against me. “After that, wreckage, it’s one day at a time. And I’ll be there with you for every single one of them.”

He swallows, shaking as he takes another halting breath. Then his eyes lift to mine, and stay there.

“Okay then,” he whispers.“Door number two.”

“Buckle up, boyfriend,” I growl, searing my lips to his. “You’re fuckingminenow.”

34

ROMAN

It starts with agitation.A mental itch I can’t scratch. A persistent whine in my head, like I’ve forgotten to do something.

At first, I think maybe I just didn’t sleep well. Or my vitamin levels are off. Or any other excuse I can come up with that doesn’t involve me fully acknowledging the obvious.

Doesn't involve me recognizing the cancer slithering through me that I’ve spentyearspretending wasn’t there, while also feeding it. Nurturing it, leaning on it until I don’t know how to even walk without its support anymore.

But as the mask begins to drop, and that black hole inside that I’ve covered with smiles and “good times” begins to reveal its true malice and cruelty, the excuses shatter like glass.

It’s not my vitamin levels, or a bad night's sleep.

It’s that it's ten p.m., and I haven’t had a drink in twenty-four hours.