Chapter 18 RAFE #2
Do it again, little halo. And maybe next time, I’ll be there to finish it.
The drive is only supposed to be a couple of hours—quiet backroads, long stretches of nothing, a gas station every fifty miles and the kind of silence most people would kill for.
I’d usually appreciate it. Hell, sometimes I need it.
That cold emptiness between cities, the silence before a kill.
But today? I’m crawling out of my fucking skin.
I’ve chewed the inside of my cheek raw. Lit twelve cigarettes.
Smoked maybe six of them halfway before stubbing them out like they tasted wrong, the rest burned down in the ashtray untouched while I stared at the window and thought about how Julian looked when he came all over my sheets.
How his thighs trembled. How his mouth moved.
How he said my name, I know he said my name.
I’m out of smokes now. And out of patience. My fingers twitch against my thigh like they’re itching for a trigger or his skin—either one would do at this point. Preferably both.
Meanwhile, Misha hasn’t shut the fuck up in forty-five straight minutes.
“—and then he fucking vanishes again. Vanishes, like I’m the problem.
Like I didn’t just take a knife to the kidney for him last week.
You’d think a guy would at least text you after that, right?
But no. Not a word. And then last night—last fucking night—he leaves a note, Rafe.
A note. ‘Don’t wait up.’ What am I? His wife? ”
I grunt. “You sound like it.”
“I feel like it,” Misha snaps. “You know what I did? I waited up. Like a dumbass. On the roof. Had a drink ready. Thought maybe he’d finally say something real. Nope. Just radio silence and three new corpses with piano wire smiles.”
“He was working,” I mutter, jaw clenching again, because my brain is not in this car anymore. It’s back at the compound. Back in my container. Back in that goddamn frame where Julian’s got his knees spread and my hoodie up around his face like it’s the only thing that still feels safe.
Misha groans. “Working, my ass. He’s ignoring me on purpose. He likes the control. The drama. The—what’s that word—dynamic.”
“You like it.”
“I want to staple his mouth shut and kiss him through the bandages,” Misha growls, then pauses, rethinking the words out loud. “Wait. That sounded weird, yeah?”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m three seconds from yanking the wheel and slamming this car into a fucking tree just to feel anything other than this slow-burning ache, my cock hard for two straight hours, throbbing so viciously I can’t even think about jerking off without Julian’s face flooding my skull—his mouth open on that moan I never actually heard but my soul fucking did, raw and wrecked and mine.
Because I need this job done fast, clean, brutal—need Nathan Grant erased so I can get the hell back to my bed and the boy currently destroying himself on it.
“Hey,” Misha says, glancing over again. “You good?”
No.
But I nod anyway, jaw locked, because Nathan Grant is a couple miles ahead, and the faster I burn him out of this world, the faster I can go home and make Julian scream until his voice gives out.
My phone buzzes—just once, a single sharp vibration against my thigh, barely audible under the engine’s growl and Misha’s low muttering about Corso ghosting him again.
I shouldn’t check it. We’re five minutes out from Florence Grove, Nathan’s last known ping, armed to the teeth, already riding the razor edge of the hunt. But something in my chest yanks tight like a leash, and my fingers are already reaching, unlocking the screen before reason can stop them.
One message.
No words.
Just a photo.
I open it, and my world fucking stops.
Julian. In my hoodie. Again.
But this time it’s not crushed to his face—it’s hanging loose off his shoulders like he doesn’t even know how to wear it right, one sleeve slipped down, neckline stretched wide and low so I can see the sharp line of his collarbone, the pale start of his chest, the faint black tape still clinging around his throat like he refuses to peel it off, like he wants the reminder of me burned into his skin.
He’s on his knees.
One hand shoved between his thighs.
The other raised, middle finger pointed straight at the camera.
His face is flushed dark, lips parted, tongue just barely out—mocking me, daring me, knowing exactly what this is doing, how it’s twisting the knife deeper. The only caption is a timestamp.
1 minute ago.
I grit my teeth so hard I taste blood.
“Everything okay over there?” Misha asks, glancing at me with one brow cocked.
“No,” I mutter, phone clenched in my fist. “Not even close.”
He snorts. “Julian again?”
I don’t answer. Because I’m not sure whether I want to fuck him or tape him to the ceiling until I get back. Maybe both. Probably both.
We drive through Florence Grove’s welcome sign a minute later. It’s barely a town. Just a dusty cluster of wooden storefronts, one gas station, a post office that looks abandoned, and a bar that doubles as a church on Sundays if the hand-painted sign is anything to go by.
Misha pulls into the lot of a motel that somehow looks worse than the last one—a two-story strip of peeling paint and flickering lights, with a busted ice machine outside and a sun-bleached sign advertising TVs, Air, Monthly Rates like that’s supposed to be a goddamn selling point.
He climbs out of the car and immediately starts scanning the lot, already pulling his phone out as he pings contacts and tries to trace signals.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
Nothing.
He finally shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “He’s not here,” Misha mutters. “Last ping was two days ago. No fresh footage. Locals said a guy who might’ve been him bought bleach and a burner, but nobody’s seen him since.”
I glance down at my phone again, Julian’s photo still open on the screen and glowing like it’s trying to burn straight through my chest.
After a second, I shut it off, slip the phone back into my pocket, and force myself to focus on the job in front of us.
“Check the back lots,” I say. “See if there’s a security camera on the hardware store. I’ll get the room.”
“Two beds this time,” Misha calls after me as I start toward the office. “Unless you want to cuddle and cry about your boyfriend.”
I flip him off over my shoulder.
Inside, I get us a key—room 207, upstairs. The floor creaks under my boots like it might collapse at any second, and the walls smell like mildew mixed with old carpet cleaner.
I toss my bag onto the bed and sit down heavily, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees as I stare at the blank TV screen across the room.
Julian’s face is still burned into the backs of my eyelids.
And if Nathan doesn’t want to be found?
Too fucking bad.
I’ve got a kid back home on his knees for a ghost, and I’m not letting him suffer alone.