Chapter 30 RAFFAEL
The Ducati growls beneath me, the vibration runs up through my arms, into my shoulders, loosening muscles that have been locked for hours. The wind cuts through the air, cold and sharp, and it feels good against the heat of my skin.
The heat’s not from the ride.
It’s from the blood.
It’s everywhere, dried in streaks down my forearms, flaked into my hair, sticky on my collar. Not mine. None of it is mine. Every drop belongs to someone who thought they could hurt her and walk away.
Gray's handling Roberto like I told him to. I trust him to make sure the bastard is put somewhere very uncomfortable.
My body’s running on fumes after not having slept for so long. I'm still aching from what Don Aurelio did to me earlier, bruises deep in places I don’t even want to think about right now. All I want is to get home, strip this filth off, and stand under water hot enough to burn until it’s all gone.
I can’t let Sophia see me like this.
The image flashes, uninvited, in front of me. Her eyes catching the stains on my shirt, the cuts on my knuckles, the way I reek of blood and smoke. No. I need to be clean before she looks at me. She’s had enough nightmares. She doesn’t need me to be one of them.
The road curves, and trees crowd the edge of my vision. I wonder if she’s awake yet. If she’s stepped out of that room. If she’s looked out into the woods the way I saw her do last night, like she’s halfway between wanting to run and wanting to belong.
Lexy’s there.
I made sure of it.
I’ve got more men stationed around the property to keep Sophia safe, but I told them to keep their distance.
I figured it would be easier for her to see a woman than another guy with a gun on his hip.
Lexy can handle herself—MI5 taught her that—but she can also smile without making it look like a threat.
Sophia needs that right now.
God knows, I’m not the one who can give it to her.
I lean into the next curve, letting the engine roar, while the dark road opens up ahead of me. Home’s not far now.
The Ducati’s growl fades as I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and swing my leg over.
My boots are heavy on the walk to the door.
My muscles are stiff from the ride, from the fight, from everything.
Inside, the warmth of the house hits me, laced with the faint smell of coffee and something sweet, pancakes, maybe.
I miss my opportunity to duck unseen down the hallway, too mesmerized, too rooted to the spot by the sound of her voice.
Sophia’s. In my house. In the house I built for us.
Lexy enters my field of vision first, she’s talking, saying something I can’t quite catch because my eyes have already gone past her.
Sophia.
She’s keeping enough distance between herself and Lexy to make a run for it if she needs to. That hits me harder than I want to admit.
I stop breathing the second my eyes fall on her.
She’s wearing the off-white cashmere I picked—soft, expensive, the kind of thing that says quiet money—and a pair of designer jeans.
I was aiming for vulnerable. I missed. Everything I imagined the clothes would do for her is already obsolete the moment she steps into the light.
Nothing does her justice. Nothing I’ve pictured comes close.
She’s not a fairy tale anymore. Not an angel. Not anything pretty one might keep on a shelf. She’s a woman who could close a room with a look. There’s an effortless grace to her now, an authority that doesn’t shout. It hums.
Her hair kills me. The long waves are gone.
In their place is a blunt, chin-skimming bob that flips under with the kind of precision you don’t get from a rinse and a roll.
It’s sharp and soft at the same time, polished, not precious.
It frames her face like a blade frames a fist. Her cheekbones cut the light.
Her throat is exposed in that way that makes a man want to promise things he can’t keep.
I want to step forward, touch the hair, feel its weight between my fingers. I want to tell her she looks dangerous and perfect. I want to keep her from every ugly thing that’s ever touched her. I don’t move.
Her gaze drops, catches the blood on my shirt, my arms, the dried streaks I didn’t have time to clean. The color drains from her face.
"Raffael?" Her voice is small, careful. "What happened to you?"
I stand there, every instinct screams for me to move, to tell her something—anything—but my body won’t listen. I didn’t want her to see me like this. Now I’m frozen, too.
"It’s not mine," I manage.
Her eyes don’t leave me. "Whose is it?"
I shake my head. "You don’t want to know."
For a heartbeat, something flickers in her expression. It’s her, the girl from the dance club all those years ago. Three years, I realize. Three years since I pulled her out of that alley, defiant even when she was staring down death.
But then it’s gone, swallowed up by whatever’s left of her after Roberto.
Her brows draw together, a faint crease forming between them. "Is that from… last night?" She’s working it out in her head, trying to line up the pieces, the timing.
I let out a slow breath, the kind meant to keep me from snapping, not at her, never at her, but at the memory of what I saw in that house. "It’s the blood of the people who let you be abused in that place," I tell her, leaving no room for her to doubt it. "The ones who knew and did nothing."
She pales; my words hit her harder than I intended, but I don’t look away. I’m not ashamed of the bloodbath I left behind. If anything, I wish I could bring them all back to life to kill them again.
"Pacco?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod once.
"Lennard?"
Another nod.
"Louisa?"
"She’s gone," I say flatly. "They’re all gone. Nobody will ever hurt you again."
Her lips part, and she hesitates on the name. "Roberto?"
"He won’t ever touch you again," I tell her, my voice drops even lower. "But he’s not dead." My hands curl into fists at my sides, the urge to finish it now burning through me all over again. "Not yet."
Her eyes search mine, like she’s not sure whether to be afraid or relieved.
"I’ll make that bastard pay," I swear to her, each word a promise carved in stone.
I'm not sure how to interpret the look she gives me, but before I can say anything else, Lexy boxes me in the kidney. "Shower, boss, now. Frankly, you reek."
I huff out a short laugh, more of a growl than anything, and glance back at Sophia. I try for an apologetic smirk, but it feels wrong on my face. Too much blood between here and the last time I smiled for real.
She doesn’t smile back. She’s still watching me like she’s trying to figure out what I am. Protector? Killer? Something in between?
"I’ll be quick," I tell her, keeping my voice low, not sure if I’m promising or warning her. Her gaze flickers to the red stains on my shirt, then back to my eyes. There’s no judgment there, just that unreadable quiet she’s worn like armor since I got her out.
I turn toward the stairs. Lexy shadows me a step behind, but halfway up, I glance back over my shoulder. Sophia’s still in the same spot, watching Lexy and me.
"How is she?" I ask as soon as we're out of earshot.
Lexy snorts softly. "Like a stray cat you’re trying to coax inside. Hungry, skittish, and ready to bolt if you move too fast."
That’s exactly what I expected, but it still makes my chest tighten.
"She talk to you?"
"A little. Enough to know she likes her coffee sweeter and more loaded than even I do." Lexy pauses, then adds, "She didn’t flinch when I sat next to her. And she let me fix her hair. That’s something."
I grunt, not trusting myself to say more. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.
Upstairs, I push into my room and head straight for the bathroom. The image in the mirror hits me first. Blood is splattered across my cheek, a streak of it drying at my temple. My shirt is stiff with it, dark stains down my forearms. I look exactly like what I am.
A man who’s killed.
The shirt comes off in one hard pull, landing in a heap on the tile.
My jeans follow. I crank the water as hot as it will go, step under it, and let it scald.
Red swirls down the drain in thin, lazy streams. The scent of iron rises in the steam, sharp enough to taste.
I scrub hard until my skin is raw, until the bruises from Don Aurelio’s little session start to throb again.
Doesn’t matter. I want it all gone—blood, smoke, the stink of death—before I go back down there.
Before I stand in front of her again.
She’s had enough monsters. She doesn’t need to see one in her own house.
By the time the water runs clear, my muscles have loosened, but the exhaustion has only sunk deeper.
I towel off, pull on clean clothes—black sweats, a dark Henley—and rake my fingers through my damp hair.
I still look tired, still look like I’ve been through hell, but at least I don’t reek of it anymore, and most of my bruises are covered.
The house is quiet as I head back downstairs. I pass the kitchen—empty now, save for a couple of plates in the sink—then follow the faint scent of coffee into the family room.
She’s there.
Curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees tucked in, a mug cradled between her hands. Her gaze is locked on the unlit fireplace, as if it might come to life if she stares long enough. The soft lamplight catches the dark strands of her hair, casting shadows against her cheek.
She doesn’t notice me at first.
For a second, I just stand there, taking her in, here, in our house, wrapped in a sweater I bought for her, obviously feeling safe enough to sit barefoot on my couch.
Safe, but not at ease.
Her shoulders are still tense, like she’s ready to spring up if the air shifts wrong.
I step forward, slow enough not to startle her. "Sophia."
Her head turns, her eyes flick over me. They linger for a moment on my clean shirt, my damp hair, then come back to meet mine. She says nothing, just takes another sip of coffee, and I notice her fingers tightening around the mug.
Carefully, I lower myself onto the sofa, leaving space between us. "Sophia," I say again, softer this time.
Her eyes lift to mine, and what’s in them nearly knocks the wind out of me: anguish, so deep and unhealed it cracks my heart.
"Why now?" she asks, and the hurt in her voice cuts deeper than any blade. "All those years… why not then?"
The question hits like a blow to the chest. I can feel it cracking something open inside me, something I’ve kept bolted shut. I stand, unable to sit there with that look on her face, and take a slow step toward her. She flinches, just a little, but enough that it kills me.
I drop to my knees in front of her, keeping my movements deliberately measured to not startle or scare her.
Gently, I wrap my hands around the mug, easing it from her grip and setting it on the coffee table, before taking her hands in mine.
Her fingers are cold, small against my palms, and I hold them like they’re the most fragile thing in the world.
"I swear to you, Sophia," I say, hearing the crack in my voice, thick with everything I can’t undo. "I didn’t know. If I had—" My throat works, the words catch. "If I had, I would’ve burned that house to the ground to get you out."
Her lips tremble, and for a moment she doesn’t look at me; she looks past me, maybe at all the years between then and now, all the nights no one came.
"I didn’t know," I repeat, softer this time, because I need her to believe it. I need her to see that whatever else I’ve done, whatever blood is on my hands, this… leaving her there… it was never a choice.
My thumbs brush over her knuckles, slow, like maybe I can smooth away some of what’s been done to her.
"Not then," I say. "But now… now, I’ll never let anyone hurt you again. And I will make him pay. I swear, I'll make that bastard pay for everything he's done to you."
A single tear slides down her cheek. Just one. But it’s enough to break me into a thousand jagged pieces.
"It’s not going to change anything," she whispers, her voice so quiet I almost miss it.
The words cut deeper than any knife.
She lifts her gaze again, and there’s a flicker of steel there, small, faint, but it’s there. "What do you want from me?"
I can’t tell her the truth. Not yet. That I’ve loved her for longer than I've been able to admit even to myself. That she’s been under my skin ever since that kiss. She wouldn’t believe me. Or worse, she would, and it would crush her under the weight of it.
So I swallow it down, every raw, reckless thing I want to say, and give her the only piece she can carry right now.
"I want to keep you safe." My voice feels too tight, too full.
"That’s it. No deals. No strings. I just…
I want you to be safe here. To sleep without looking over your shoulder.
To eat what you want. To breathe without feeling like you have to ask permission. "
Her hands are still in mine, and I tighten my hold, not enough to trap her, just enough so she knows I won’t let go unless she asks.
Inside, my own demons are furiously thrashing.
I see her flinch when I move too fast, hear the hesitation in her voice when she says my name.
I want to take all of it away. I want to kill the memories that keep her locked behind the prison walls she erected to keep herself safe from Roberto’s cruelty.
I want to see her whole again. I'd give fucking anything for it. Even my life.