Chapter 19
Sloane
My room is as empty as I feel. It's freezing in here.
Winter seeps in through every wall, making everything remind me of him.
How he went from fire to ice, from kissing me like I was his last meal to acting like I'm poison.
Why does he have to be so infuriating? One second, I think he gets me, the next, I want to scream.
And the worst part is, he makes me doubt myself.
Am I just a princess in his eyes, too soft for his world? I hate him for making me want him.
I replay the whole scene in my head, every word of his rejection cutting deeper on the rerun.
"It’s not what you want," he said, as if I don't know my own mind.
As if the honesty of my confession—about Bear, about everything—means nothing compared to his brooding self-hatred.
He opened the door just enough for me to see inside, then slammed it in my face.
I should be angry. I am angry. But underneath that is something worse.
Hurt. The kind that feels like a crack spreading through glass.
I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore how his taste still lingers on my lips.
Maybe he's right. Maybe this is a mistake.
Maybe I am just looking for a distraction from the grief, from the chaos of Maddy's murder.
But it doesn't feel like that. It feels real. Too real. And that's what terrifies me.
I bury my face in the pillow, half laughing, half groaning.
Who does he think he is? One minute I’m ready to climb him like a jungle gym, the next I want to strangle him.
He kisses like he’s drowning, like I’m the air he needs.
And I kissed him back. All in. I know the kind of man he is, but for a moment, it didn’t matter.
I wanted him to be the one who makes it better.
Who doesn’t blame me for everything, including things I can’t control.
Then, out of nowhere, he pulls away. Leaves me in pieces.
I am so mad. But it’s not the kind of mad that burns out.
It sits heavy, smoldering like coals that won’t die.
I roll off the bed and pace the room, rubbing my hands up and down my arms to warm up.
It’s no use. Nothing here feels warm, not with him on my mind.
Everything about this mansion is too big, too cold.
Like him. The second I think I’ve got him figured out, he throws me a curveball and I’m back at square one, more confused than ever. More pissed than ever.
But pissed in a good way, if there is such a thing. The kind of pissed that makes me even more sure I’m right about him. The kind that makes me want to prove he’s wrong about me.
When he kissed me, when he touched me, it was like he was giving me a glimpse. Just a tiny sliver of what it could be like if he let me in. More than just heat and bodies colliding. It was pure adrenaline. It was raw and real, and he didn’t hold back. Not for one second.
It made everything else fade away. Everything except him and me.
I shouldn’t let him do this to me. I’m the one who’s supposed to understand people, right?
It’s what I study. It’s what I’m good at.
But with him, I’m lost. I thought I was stronger than this, but here I am.
There’s something about Rafe that makes me forget the rules.
Forget why I shouldn’t be this close to him.
Forget he’s a living, breathing red flag, waving right in front of my face.
Forget he’s already breaking my heart before I get a chance to let him in.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stay mad. He’s not just keeping me at arm’s length.
He’s fighting himself as much as he’s fighting me.
But damn it, Rafe, if you’re going to push me away, at least be consistent.
One minute, he’s the dark, dangerous stranger I shouldn’t want, and the next, he’s this man who lets me believe he’s human enough to try.
And here I am, fooling myself into thinking I’m not into it.
I huff out a breath and look around. There’s nothing in this room that’s mine.
No pictures, no books, just stark white walls and a chair that looks like it might bite me if I sit on it wrong.
It’s just like the rest of the house. All money, no warmth.
Maybe he thinks that’s all I care about.
The way he sneered when he called me a princess cut deep.
But I’m tougher than he thinks. I won’t let him be the one to break me.
If anything, I’m going to be the one to break him.
My hands are ice, my pulse is fire. I know I’m spiraling, but isn’t that the whole point?
I want him to see what I’m made of, even if it’s not what he expects.
Especially if it’s not what he expects. I don’t care how long it takes.
He’s going to know he was wrong about me, wrong about us, wrong to think I can’t handle him.
I’m going to make sure he sees me, all of me, just like he did when he kissed me.
And I’m going to make sure he knows he wants it, even if he’s too scared to admit it.
I’m staying in this frigid, empty room as long as it takes for him to come to his senses. He can push me away, but he’s not getting rid of me that easily. Not by a long shot. It’s what he doesn’t realize yet. I like bad ideas, and he’s the best worst idea I’ve ever had.
I head to the kitchen. I’m not about to hide in a room with less personality than a cafeteria tray, no matter how hot Rafe is one minute and how much I want to strangle him the next.
I push through the big, empty rooms and down the stairs.
I reach the kitchen and see him sitting there alone, leather gloves and brooding expression in place.
He looks like he owns the world. He does own the world, more or less, but I’m not about to let him own me.
He looks up and beckons me in, and my heart does a little somersault.
I hesitate. My hand is still on the doorframe, half of me ready to bolt back to my white-walled prison and avoid this.
..whatever this is. The other half steps forward.
He doesn't say a word, just tilts his head slightly. I wish I could hate him. I wish I could let him think I’m sulking, but that’s not my style.
I’m nothing if not stubborn. I let out a slow breath and walk in.
He’s at the huge, industrial fridge by the time I reach the counter.
The stainless steel glints in the fluorescent light, like even the appliances are challenging me to crack.
Just like Rafe. He opens the fridge and starts rummaging inside, pulling out random items and slamming them onto the marble countertop.
Bread. A wheel of cheese. Some kind of meat I don’t recognize.
“You look hungry,” he says.
I am unimpressed.
“You look... like you.”
“Smart-ass,” he says, almost grinning, but not quite.
“Yeah, but can you handle it?”
I raise my eyebrows and bite my lip.
He laughs this time, a short, sharp sound.
I feel it in my stomach, a jolt. But I play it cool, act like I’m totally unaffected by the way he owns this space, like he owns everything else.
“What are you doing?” I ask,
“Feeding you.”
“Oh, so now you care.”
“Yeah,” he says, turning to me with a piece of salami or prosciutto or whatever the hell it is. “Now I care.”
My mouth quirks up at the corner, but I’m still mad at him, still raw from the way he ripped me open and then shut me down.
“Good to know you have priorities.”
He holds the piece of meat in my direction.
“Eat,” he says.
I cross my arms, mostly so he doesn’t see my hands shaking.
“What is this?”
“What does it look like?”
“I’m not talking about the food,” I say.
“You’re the one who came down here.”
He throws it back at me, but it’s almost playful. Almost.
“Right,” I say. “Should have stayed in my ivory tower.”
He slices into the cheese with a knife that could double as a machete.
“I told you. You can stay as long as you want.”
I roll my eyes.
“You sure your princess can handle it?”
He doesn’t flinch, but there’s an edge to his voice now.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“You know what? I will,” I say.
His eyes lock onto mine.
“Good.”
It’s like we’re having two different conversations, one with words and one with the heat between us.
Neither of us is backing down. Neither of us is giving an inch.
He slides the plate over to me. I don’t want to take it, but I’m hungrier than I realize.
The food is good. Better than good. I’d ask him where it’s from, but I’m guessing the Rosetti family is in charge of importing everything from humans to grapes. It tastes expensive.
“Don’t get used to it,” I say. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Not anymore.”
His voice is cold again, but not in the same way. There’s worry behind it, not ice. Not like before.
I set the food down, lose my appetite.
“So what, I’m a prisoner now?”
“You’re smart,” he says, holding my gaze. “Act like it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I made some calls.”
I snort.
“You mean you went behind my back.”
“Yeah. And it’s a good thing I did.”
My chest feels tight, but I won’t let him see me sweat.
“Because you know what’s best for me?”
His eyes are steel.
“Because I know how this works,” he says.
I lean back in my chair, push it so far I’m almost tipping over.
“This should be good.”
“The Red Hooks are asking about you.”
Everything drops away for a second. Everything except his eyes on mine and the space between us shrinking and expanding at the same time.
His voice is as dark as the space we’re in. “And that’s not all. They know who you are. You weren’t dumb enough to give them your name, were you?”
My throat goes dry. I force out a laugh, a breathy sound that doesn’t convince even me.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask instead of answering his question.
“So you understand why you have to stay here.”
I stand up, palms flat on the table.
“What if I don’t want to?” I ask.
“Tough,” he says, and he’s across from me in a flash, matching my stance. “I told you. You’re not leaving.”
“Or what?”
My voice rises, defiant, a challenge.
“Or I drag you back.”
“Seriously?”
His jaw is set like concrete, but his voice wavers, just a fraction.
“Don’t make me,” he says.
“Why?” I ask, softening, my anger melting into something else. “Why do you care?”
He hesitates. It’s just for a second, but it’s there. Then he looks at me with a kind of intensity that makes me hold my breath.
“Because I do.”
Three small words. They hit me like a punch, leave me reeling. They aren’t what I expected, and I don’t know what to do with them. Not at first. But they shift the ground between us.
I cross my arms again, this time more to hold myself together than to act tough.
“You’re still an asshole,” I say.
He smirks.
“But you’re still here.”
It’s almost funny, the way we are with each other. Like sparring partners who like getting hit as much as they like throwing the punches. Maybe that’s why I can’t hate him. Maybe that’s why I can’t leave. It doesn’t make sense, but it does.
“So, you’re forcing me to stay, huh?”
He shrugs, leans back like he’s already won.
“Only way to keep you safe,” he says.
I shake my head, half amused, half furious.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
“I know.”
And just like that, the heat flares again. Only now, it’s not from anger or fear or the usual uncertainty. It’s from the part of him that’s starting to unravel, starting to show itself even when he doesn’t mean to let it.
“You want more food?”
He pushes the plate towards me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yeah, you are.”
He gets up, moves around the counter with the stealth and confidence of a man who’s always in control.
“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” I say, following him with my eyes. “Think you know everything.”
“I know enough.”
He’s back at the fridge. More food. More things I don’t recognize.
But it’s not what he’s doing that matters.
It’s the way he’s watching me, like maybe this time, he won’t pull away.
Like maybe this time, he’ll let me in just enough for me to show him he can trust me with whatever secrets he’s hiding.
“Don’t I get a say?”
He takes off his gloves, tosses them on the counter.
“Go ahead.”
The air feels charged now, the distance between us smaller, hotter. I walk around the island, stand close enough to see the tension in his shoulders. Close enough to see him soften as I step closer still.
“You’re going to regret this,” I say, my voice low, teasing, ready to dare him to admit the truth.
“You sure about that?”
His eyes are on me, burning through every doubt I have.
I smile, almost touching him, almost not. “I like bad ideas, remember?”
I feel him crack again. Feel him see me in the way that makes everything around us disappear.
Makes the rest of the world drop away so it’s just him and me and nothing but space and heat and the things he doesn’t say.
He moves, like he’s going to grab me, pull me in, and kiss me senseless, but he doesn’t.
Not yet. Instead, he reaches behind him and picks up a jar, hands it to me with the slightest hint of a grin.
My heart skips. Spicy mustard. My favorite.
“How did you know?” I ask, breathless, already knowing the answer.
“I know everything about you.”
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them.
It’s the fact that he remembers something so small, just for me.
It’s the fact that, as hard as he tries, he can’t keep me out.
He’s letting me in more than he wants to, and I can see it in every inch of his body.
I see it when he looks at me with frustration and longing and need.
I see it in the way he starts to reach for me again, stops, then reaches again.
He pulls me in, wraps an arm around my waist, and my heart does more than a somersault.
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he says, but it’s filled with something like wonder.
I tilt my head back and smile up at him, and I know I’ve got him.
“And you like it.”
“I must be crazy,” he says in a gravelly whisper, so close I can feel it in my bones.
“I can work with crazy,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him until there’s nothing left between us.
Our mouths meet, soft then hard, slow then wild, and this time, I’m not letting him go.