16. Tayana
16
TAYANA
T his thing with Rafi Gatti—I don’t know what you’d call it, or what it’s supposed to be. I just know it feels like nothing I’ve ever had before. We spent hours on that lookout, watching the city below come alive for some and drift into sleep for others. The city stretched out endlessly before us, a tapestry of light and motion, but somehow, up there, none of it seemed to matter.
We talked about everything and nothing. Little moments from childhood that didn’t seem important until now, random thoughts about the stars, stupid jokes that made us laugh harder than they should have. And yet, there was an unspoken rule: no mention of our families, no digging into the lives we live when we’re not here, wrapped in this strange, fragile bubble. It was like we weren’t Tayana Kamarov and Rafi Gatti—we were just two strangers sharing a moment that neither of us wanted to end.
Now, as I ride behind him on his motorcycle, I feel that bubble shrinking, threatening to burst. The wind rushes past, cool and sharp against my face, but it doesn’t stop the warmth building inside me. My arms are wrapped tightly around his waist, my chest pressed firmly to his back, and I don’t even try to keep some distance. Instead, I lean into him, feeling the strength in his body, the solidness of him. The safety of him. The warmth.
His scent clings to me, something dark and smoky, with a hint of spice that makes me dizzy. It’s not just the leather of his jacket or the faint trace of his cologne—it’s him. It’s in my clothes now, in my hair, in the air between us, and it pulls at something deep and instinctive inside me.
I don’t know the last time I felt like this with a man. Maybe I never have. It’s not just attraction, though there’s plenty of that. It’s something heavier, something that scares me. Because this? This feels like surrender.
I tighten my grip on him, as if holding him closer will keep the world at bay a little longer. If I could, I’d stay here forever, folded against him, the roar of the engine drowning out every thought, every worry, every reminder of who I am and where I come from.
But reality is waiting, lurking just out of sight. The second this ride ends, the bubble will pop. My father will still be the man who controls everything I do. My uncle will still be the one who enforces it. The ghosts of my past will still chase me, no matter how fast Rafi’s bike can go.
I hate that this can’t last. But at the same time, I love that it’s happening at all.
We pull up a block from my house, just like I asked. He slows the bike to a stop, and I reluctantly let go of him, already missing the warmth of his body. The street is quiet, empty except for the faint glow of the streetlights.
The roar of his motorcycle fades as we slow to a stop a block away from the house. I slide off the seat, my legs shaky—not from the ride but from the pull of his presence. Rafi doesn’t say anything at first, just sits astride the bike, one hand resting lazily on the handlebar, the other tugging off his helmet. The very sight of him steals the breath from my lungs.
“They’re really going to roast me for this,” I mutter, glancing toward the house where I know my father’s men are waiting, probably watching.
His dark eyes meet mine, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Then don’t go. Come home with me.” Oh my God, he’s serious.
“You don’t understand the kind of mayhem that will create,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is sharper than I intend, but the thought of leaving with him makes my chest tighten. “They’ll be knocking on your door and dragging me out before you know it.”
He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting like this is some kind of joke. “I think I can handle a couple of muscle heads,” he says, reaching up to twirl a strand of my hair around his finger.
My breath catches. It’s such a small thing, the way he does it, but it feels intimate, disarming. I take a step back, needing space to gather my thoughts. “Or my father will be on the next plane, ready to make an example out of you before I can blink.”
That makes him pause. His eyes narrow slightly, his amusement fading into something more serious. “Now, your father,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “he’s a different story.”His gaze flickers from the lock of hair in his hand to my face, lingering. “Your father…he’s the one who owns your hand.”
The words land heavily between us, the air between us thick with unspoken words. My pulse quickens as I search his face, trying to read the thoughts hidden behind his dark eyes. We’ve barely spent any time together, not enough to warrant this kind of conversation. And yet, there’s a gravity in his tone that tells me he’s not joking. He’s serious about us.
Before I can respond, he straightens in the seat, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something sterner. “You’ll call me,” he says, his tone brooking no argument.
I cross my arms, more for comfort than defiance. “I will. And then you’ll leave.”
“And…?” he prompts, his head tilting slightly, waiting for me to finish the thought.
“And then you’ll have my number because you clearly planned this whole thing when you programmed your number into my phone,” I say, arching a brow at him.
He laughs, the sound low and rich, sending a shiver down my spine. He doesn’t deny it, which only makes me more flustered.
I glance toward the house, nerves twisting in my stomach. The lights are still on, and I can almost picture the men inside—watchful, suspicious, ready to pounce the moment I step through the door. They’ll have questions, sharp and probing, and the last thing I want is for Rafi to get caught up in their scrutiny.
“I mean it, Rafi. Don’t hang around,” I say, my voice softer now.
He tilts his head, the smirk fading into something gentler. “I’ll leave when you’re safe inside.”
There’s no point arguing with him. I can see it in his eyes, the quiet resolve, the unspoken dare. He’d win, and we both know it.
Slinging my bag across my chest, I step back, but something keeps me rooted for just a moment longer. “Thanks,” I say quietly, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“For what?” he asks.
“For…this.” I gesture vaguely, not sure how to explain what I mean. For the ride. For the escape. For making me feel like just a girl, not Tayana Kamarov.
He nods, his gaze holding mine. “Anytime, Tayana.”
I turn and walk toward the house, my steps slower than they need to be. The closer I get, the heavier the air feels, the weight of the world pressing back down on my shoulders. At the corner, I glance back, unable to help myself.
He’s still there, leaning against the bike, one hand on the seat, the other resting casually in his lap. The way he watches me makes my heart stutter, a part of me aching to run back to him, to climb on the bike and let him take me anywhere but here.
But I can’t.
I force myself to keep moving, my head held high even as my heart pulls in the opposite direction. His gaze follows me until I disappear into the shadows, and I hate how much I feel the loss of it, even though he’s just a block away.
Inside, the questions will come, sharp and insistent. But for now, I let myself hold on to the memory of the wind on my face, the solid warmth of Rafi in front of me, and the feeling of freedom I’ve almost forgotten.