CHAPTER 7 – Rafe
I stare at the ceiling, the flickering light from the fireplace casting shadows that stretch and twist along the wooden planks.
Sleep won’t come. It hasn’t for hours.
My body is tired, sore, still healing.
But my mind?
It won’t fucking shut off.
I was supposed to leave. I tried.
And yet, here I am.
Trapped in this place.
Trapped with her.
Emilia.
She moves through this cabin like she belongs to it—like it’s an extension of herself.
She should be fragile. Soft.
But she isn’t.
There’s something steady about her, something unshaken, something dangerous in the way she refuses to be afraid of me.
And that?
That makes her more of a threat than anything else.
Because I should have left.
I should have walked away the moment I could stand.
Instead, I let her keep me here.
And that means she’s getting under my skin.
I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against my forehead, forcing myself to think of anything else.
But it’s fucking useless.
Because now—all I can think about is her.
Her voice.
The way it sounds when she’s frustrated. When she snaps at me, when she thinks she can order me around.
The way she looked at me earlier, her eyes burning with irritation—but also something else. Something she doesn’t want to admit.
And then, worse—I think about what her friends said.
"You think he’s hot, don’t you?"
I should have been asleep.
I should have ignored their chatter.
But the moment I heard my name, I listened. And now I can’t fucking stop thinking about it.
I let my head tilt back against the pillow, inhaling slowly.
She thinks I’m hot.
The thought shouldn’t do anything to me.
But it does.
And now my mind is spiraling.
Wandering.
Imagining.
I let it.
I imagine what she’d sound like if she wasn’t just frustrated with me—if she was unraveling under me instead.
I imagine her hair spilling over the pillows, those perfect lips parting, a breathy gasp escaping as I—
Fuck.
Heat licks down my spine.
I shift, my body tensing, my fingers curling into the sheets as my mind spins faster, deeper.
I imagine the way her skin would feel beneath my hands.
I imagine pulling her into my lap, feeling the full weight of her body pressing against me.
I imagine gripping her hips, tilting her chin up, dragging my lips down her throat, tasting her, taking her, making her mine.
I imagine whispering that word against her skin, just to feel the way she shudders.
Sweetheart.
I groan, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
I can’t.
I can’t fucking think about her like this.
Because this?
This is a dangerous game.
A temptation I can’t afford.
But my body doesn’t seem to care about that.
Because it’s reacting anyway.
Because it knows—deep down—I want her.
I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire goddamn life.
And if I stay here much longer, if I keep looking at her the way I do—
I won’t be able to stop myself.
I will ruin her.
And worse?
I think she’d let me.
A sharp pull of pain jerks me out of my own head.
I inhale sharply, my body recoiling at the sudden reminder that I’m still broken.
That I’m still healing.
I shift onto my back, staring at the ceiling again, my jaw tight.
I have no time for this.
No time for fantasies.
No time for distractions.
I’m on borrowed time.
The cartel—my old life—is waiting for me.
And the longer I stay here, the harder it’s going to be to leave.
I grit my teeth, ignoring the pounding in my chest.
Ignoring the ache that has nothing to do with my injuries.
I need to go.
I need to walk away before it’s too late.
But I want a taste.
Just one taste.
One moment where I can let myself have her.
I clench my fists, my mind spinning.
Just one moment.
And then I’ll walk away.
Right?
Right.
But as I lay there in the dark, my body thrumming with heat, my heart pounding with something unfamiliar, something terrifying—
I know I’m lying to myself.
Because I know that once I taste her, once I sink into her warmth, feel her skin against mine, feel the way her body molds to me, reacts to me—
I won’t ever want to leave.
***
I hear her moving in the kitchen.
Slow, unhurried steps.
The faint clink of a glass against the counter.
I shift, pushing myself up slightly, resting my weight on my forearm, watching as she moves through the dim light of the cabin.
The firelight catches her as she moves—golden against her skin, flickering over the curve of her thighs, the bare stretch of her legs beneath that fucking nightgown.
The oversized sweater hangs off one shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of her collarbone, the smooth skin that I know would feel warm beneath my lips.
She doesn’t realize I’m awake.
She doesn’t see me watching.
But I do.
And that’s when I feel it.
That slow, simmering pull.
The one I’ve been trying to ignore since the moment she touched me.
The one that’s been burning just beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to break free.
I drag a hand down my face, inhaling deeply, trying to shake it off.
I shouldn’t want this.
I shouldn’t want her.
And yet—
My gaze drops.
And I see it.
The peaks of her nipples, hard against the thin fabric of her sweater.
Fuck.
Heat coils in my stomach, sharp and insistent.
I shift again, my body reacting before my mind can catch up, and I feel it—the tightening in my jeans, the unmistakable ache of need.
I grit my teeth, clenching my fists.
This isn’t happening.
It can’t.
And then—
"Can’t sleep either?"
Her voice breaks the silence.
I exhale slowly, tilting my head slightly. "Is that care for me I sense?"
She snorts, rolling her eyes. "I don’t care. But you’re still here, so…"
I arch a brow. "So?"
She doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, she moves closer, bare feet whispering against the wooden floor.
Stopping just a few feet away.
Too close.
Not close enough.
"You should be resting," she says, arms crossed, watching me carefully.
"So should you."
She exhales, rubbing the back of her neck, shifting on her feet.
She’s restless.
We both are.
The tension in the air is thick, pulsing, breathing between us.
I let my gaze drift lower.
Taking in the way the fabric of her sweater barely reaches mid-thigh.
The way it clings to her in all the right places, exposing too much, not nearly enough.
The way her nipples are still hard against the fabric, a silent betrayal of whatever she’s trying not to feel.
She notices.
Her breath catches—just barely—but I don’t miss it.
Neither of us move.
Neither of us speak.
The space between us feels like it’s closing in, shrinking, pulling tighter, suffocating.
My pulse kicks up.
My fingers twitch.
I could reach for her.
Just one step.
Just one moment.
And then—
She steps back.
Just an inch.
But it’s enough to shatter whatever the fuck this moment is.
I smirk. "Scared?"
Her eyes flash. "Of you?"
I shrug. "Of this."
For a second, she doesn’t answer.
And then—her lips part.
"You’re the one who should be scared."
The words hit harder than I expect.
Because maybe she’s right.
Maybe that’s exactly why I need to leave.
I should let her walk away.
I should let her put space between us.
But before I can stop myself—before I can make the mistake of thinking too much—
I grab her wrist.
She lets out a gasp.
I feel it—the slight, unsteady hitch in her chest, the way her pulse thrums beneath my touch like a trapped bird.
She should pull away.
She should tell me to stop.
She doesn’t.
She leans in.
Just slightly. Just enough.
And that’s all I need.
I grip the back of her neck and crush my mouth against hers.
The moment detonates between us, a raw, hungry collision of lips, teeth, and heat.
She meets me halfway—fierce, unyielding, fire against fire.
Her fingers fist in my shirt, dragging me down to her, body pressing flush against mine.
She’s warm, soft, intoxicating, and fuck—I want more.
I press Emilia’s back against the rough wooden wall, my hands sliding down her sides, fingers digging into her hips with possessive hunger.
She gasps into my mouth as I lift her, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, locking me against her heat.
“Rafe—” My name on her lips is a plea, a challenge, a fucking siren call that unravels me.
I answer with my teeth grazing her throat, biting just enough to make her shiver, my hands roaming, claiming every curve.
She tilts her head back, baring her neck, offering herself up, and it’s my fucking undoing.
Her sweater slips off her shoulder, and I tear it over her head, exposing smooth, golden skin, the heavy swell of her breasts, nipples stiff and begging for my touch.
Fuck, she’s a vision—flushed, breathless, wrecked before I’ve even started.
“Your body’s fucking sinful,” I rasp, dragging my lips down her neck, tasting the pulse hammering beneath her skin. Her nails bite into my shoulders, sharp and grounding, and I growl, nipping harder, sucking a mark that claims her as mine.
“Say it, Emilia,” I demand, voice rough, low, wrecked.
“I want you,” she breathes, hands tugging at my shirt, desperate, needy. “I want you now.”
I rip my shirt off, her hands immediately on me, tracing scars, mapping muscle, her touch like fire on my skin.
I don’t give her time to think, pinning her harder against the wall, grinding my cock against her, letting her feel how fucking hard I am.
Her moan is raw, her hips rolling against mine, the heat of her pussy seeping through her shorts, driving me insane.
“Fuck,” I growl, “you’re already soaked for me, aren’t you?”
She whimpers, eyes fluttering shut, her body trembling with need.
I slide my hand between us, fingers slipping beneath her shorts, finding her panties drenched.
“Jesus, Emilia,” I groan, teasing her slick folds, circling her clit with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes her gasp. “All this for me?”
“Yes,” she gasps, voice breaking, hips bucking into my hand. “Fuck, yes—please—”