Chapter 18
I woke up to sunlight and immediate regret.
Rafael was perfect, still asleep with one arm draped across my chest like he was afraid I'd disappear. The mistake was letting him fuck me like he was establishing a territorial claim that required maximum damage.
I sat up. Every muscle from my waist down staged a formal protest.
"Ow." The sound came out pathetic, barely more than a whimper. "Fuck."
Rafael's eyes opened, focusing on me. Concern crossed his face, though it might have been touching if I weren't currently experiencing what my body clearly interpreted as divine punishment. "You okay?"
"Define okay." My second attempt at standing went better. My legs cooperated… Mostly. I moved like someone who'd been thoroughly destroyed the night before, which was accurate.
He smiled.
"Don't," I warned.
"Don't what?"
"Don't look pleased with yourself."
Rafael sat up and stretched, the movement drawing attention to his chest, his shoulders, the lean muscle of his torso. The sheet pooled at his waist, and the outline beneath the fabric explained why walking was currently such a challenge.
"I'm not pleased with myself," he said, but his voice carried satisfaction, and he wasn't even trying to hide the smirk anymore.
Each step to the bathroom was a careful negotiation between pride and physics. My gait resembled something wounded and unsteady.
Behind me, Rafael made a sound. His fist pressed to his mouth, shoulders shaking.
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No." The word came out strangled. He lost it completely then, and the sound of his laughter made me ache in a way that had nothing to do with the bite marks.
"I hate you," I said, but I was smiling too.
"No, you don’t."
He was right. I’d never hated him.
The bathroom mirror showed the full damage report. Bite marks on my neck, my shoulders, my chest… I looked like I’d lost a fight to something feral, which was technically accurate.
When I emerged, Rafael had pulled on his boxers and was making the bed. The domestic gesture was so normal, so couple-like, that it made my throat tight.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, not looking at me. "I didn't mean to hurt you that badly."
"Yes, you did." I crossed to him slowly, my body complaining with each step. "You meant every bit of it.” I touched the bandaged arm. The ache pulsed beneath the gauze. "Don't apologize for what we both wanted."
His hands stilled on the sheets. "Does it bother you? That I marked you permanently?"
"No, and that's what scares me."
His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
We stood there for a moment, his hand on my face, mine still touching the bandaged arm. The morning light turned everything gold, softening the edges of what we'd done to each other. But the marks were still there. Still real. Still permanent.
"Diego made coffee," he said finally.
“How do you know?”
His mouth curved slightly. "Because I can smell the burnt beans from here."
I attempted the impossible task of putting on jeans. Standing on one leg while navigating denim over bruised thighs turned out to be significantly harder than expected. Rafael moved to help, steadying me with a hand on my hip, and I let him.
We made it to the kitchen, where Diego and Jasper had apparently been up for hours. The table was covered with food: eggs, toast, fruit, and what looked like an attempt at pancakes that had gone somewhat sideways.
Diego took one look at me and stopped mid-pour with the coffee pot. "Holy shit. How many times did he bite you?"
"I didn't count."
Rafael's face went scarlet. "Can we not—"
"Madre de Dios, padre! What are you, a piranha?"
My face burned. "I'm fine."
"You're literally limping."
I finally managed to sit, though I immediately regretted the decision. Sitting was going to be impossible for the foreseeable future. Standing hurt. Lying down was the only comfortable position, and we didn't have time for that luxury.
"Can you walk?" Jasper asked.
"Of course I can walk." I demonstrated by standing and taking three steps that looked less like walking and more like an arthritic shuffle. "See? Perfectly functional."
Jasper took a long drag of his cigarette. "We need to move. Luka sent coordinates. He'll meet us tonight, but we have to get to New York first."
"How long is the flight?" Rafael asked.
"Six hours." Jasper's pale eyes tracked to me. "Can you sit for six hours?"
I lowered myself back into the chair, trying not to wince. "I can manage."
"That's not what your body language is saying," Diego said.
Rafael’s hand settled on my shoulder.
"I'll be fine," I said again, but the words came out less certain. Six hours sitting in a plane seat while every muscle below my waist was staging a revolution sounded like a special circle of hell Dante had forgotten to mention.
Getting ready took longer than it should have. Rafael helped me move through the house, his hands gentle on damaged skin, and I let him. That was new. The letting him.
The drive to the airport was quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Rafael's hand found mine in the space between our seats, fingers tangling, and I held on tighter than I probably should have.
Six hours later, the plane touched down in New York.
The terminal was small, barely more than a glorified waiting room. Glass walls, uncomfortable chairs, a bored security guard who barely looked up when we entered. The whole place had the depressing ambiance of every regional airport in America.
But something was wrong.
I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but the air tasted off. Too quiet. The security guard's disinterest felt performative rather than genuine. Two men in business suits sat near the far exit, not reading their newspapers so much as holding them like props.
Rafael stayed close, hand on my lower back. The touch was becoming necessary, expected. I'd spent my whole life avoiding exactly this kind of dependence, and now walking through an airport without him anchoring me felt impossible to imagine.
"Do you feel that?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah." His voice was barely audible. "Something's not right."
We were halfway across the terminal when I spotted the third man. He was positioned near the bathroom exit, blocking the most obvious escape route.
My hand went for a weapon that wasn't there.
The doors burst open.
Men in black tactical gear flooded in from every entrance. Four, six, eight of them. Cerberus. The tactical gear alone probably weighed forty pounds each, total overkill for kidnapping two exhausted men.
Rafael drew a knife from his sleeve and moved in front of me.
"Put your weapons down! Get on the ground!" The command came from everywhere at once, multiple voices shouting over each other.
One of them raised something. A hood. Black fabric.
"No,” I started. "No, wait—"
The hood came down over my head, cutting off light, cutting off air, cutting off everything. Hands grabbed my arms, wrenching them behind my back. Zip ties bit into my wrists.
"RAFAEL!" I twisted toward where he'd been standing, but hands shoved me forward hard enough that I stumbled.
"Lorenzo!" His voice was somewhere to my left, muffled through the hood. "Don't hurt him! Whatever you want, just don't—"
There was the sound of an impact. Rafael's voice cut off mid-sentence.
Terror clawed up my throat. "Rafael? RAFAEL!"
"Shut up." Something hard jabbed into my ribs. A gun barrel. "Move."
They dragged me forward.
My breath came too fast, too shallow. The hood pressed against my mouth with each exhale, fabric sucking in, making it impossible to get enough air. Every kidnapping movie I'd ever dismissed as unrealistic suddenly felt prophetic.
Hands shoved me into a vehicle. I hit hard, the impact sending fresh pain through my already damaged body.
More weight landed beside me with a familiar grunt of pain.
"Rafael?" I tried to move toward the sound, but my hands were bound, my body hurt too much, and the hood made everything darkness.
"I'm here," he said. “I’m right here.”
The van doors slammed shut as the engine roared to life. We were moving.
They’re going to kill us. They’re going to separate us and kill us, and I’ll die without seeing his face one more time.
I don’t know how long we drove before the van stopped. I tried to count, tried to keep track of turns and stops, but it was too much, and I was too terrified. Someone dragged me out onto rough concrete. The air was different here. Colder. The echo suggested a large space. A warehouse, maybe?
They threw me into a chair. The hard plastic bit into my ass, making every bruise and bite mark scream. Hands wrapped more zip ties around my ankles, securing me to the chair legs.
"Where is he?" My voice came out hoarse through the hood. "Where's Rafael?"
No answer. The footsteps retreated.
Minutes passed before another door opened and footsteps approached.
"Whatever you’re planning to do to me, you’d better make it count," I spat. “Because if I get free and find out you laid one finger on his head—”
Someone ripped the hood off, and suddenly I was blinking into the darkness.
“Luka?”
My brain stuttered and then rebooted.
"You absolute MOTHERFUCKER!" I exploded, twisting in my attempt to get free. "What the FUCK, Luka?!"
"Only way to get you here safely." He was too damn calm considering I thought he was going to kill me thirty seconds ago. "Every airport, every highway, every safe house is being watched. This was the only way to extract you without being intercepted."
Only Luka would traumatize his friends for operational security.
"You could have warned us!"
"No, I couldn't." He moved closer, studying my face. "If you'd known, you would have acted differently. The watchers would have noticed."
"So you just let us think we were going to die?"
"Yes."
God, Luka could be insufferable when all he was thinking about was work. I liked him better when he was horny for his therapist and munching on his gummy worms.
I needed sugar. Desperately.