Chapter 30 Raelynn
THIRTY
RAELYNN
By the time Detective Meyer finally lets me go, the first bruised shades of dawn are bleeding into the horizon, turning the sky a washed-out blue gray.
I step out of the station and into the early morning chill, exhaustion sinking deep into my bones.
My entire body feels like it’s been wrung dry—muscles aching, nerves frayed, brain buzzing like static.
Hours of sitting under harsh fluorescent lights in that freezing interrogation room, answering question after question about every terrifying detail, have hollowed me out completely.
All I want is my bed. To crawl beneath the blankets, bury my face in my pillow, and pretend tonight never happened.
But my bed is inside an active crime scene. My apartment—my sanctuary—is now sealed off behind yellow tape, swarming with officers and crime scene techs. And there’s no chance of rest, not while Emilio is still in the hospital. I need to see him, to touch him, to know he’s really okay.
The second I slide into my Kia, I grab my phone. My hands shake as I fumble with the screen. I call Tessa first. She answers after a few rings, her voice thick with exhaustion.
“Rae?” she says softly.
“Hey. How’s Max?”
“He made it through surgery,” she says, and I hear the relief in her voice. “They’re keeping him overnight for observation, but the vet said the wound missed anything major.”
The tension in my chest loosens just a little, enough for my breath to hitch. “Thank God.”
“Yeah,” she exhales. “He’s a tough boy. I’m gonna pick him up tomorrow and take him to stay with me at my parents, unless you want me to bring him to you?”
“As much as I want to be with my baby, we’re not in the clear yet. Both you and Max will be safer far away from me.” I sigh.
“You don’t gotta lie, babe. If you want the space, all you gotta do is ask.”
Even through the fatigue, I hear the smirk in her voice. “Tessa—”
She laughs softly. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t need it.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at my lips. “Goodnight, Tess.”
“Night, Rae. Hang in there.”
When I hang up, I call Emilio immediately. He, of course, answers after the first ring.
He’s still at the hospital, waiting for his discharge papers. The doctors stitched up his shoulder and offered him pain medication, but the stubborn bastard refused them. Said he didn’t want to be stoned in case The Ripper decided to make another move tonight, which I completely understand.
Still, I can hear the fatigue in his voice, the way the exhaustion bleeds through even when he’s trying to sound steady.
He’s been stabbed, nearly bled out on my living room floor, and yet he’s more worried about me than himself.
That thought alone twists something in my chest—equal parts love and guilt.
Because I keep replaying the night in my head, over and over.
The chaos, the screaming, the glass shattering.
The way I froze when I should’ve acted. Every ounce of my self-defense training with Emilio evaporated the second fear took over.
I thought I was at least somewhat prepared for something like this, but the truth is, when it finally came, I was useless.
By the time I pull into the hospital parking lot, the sky is soft gray, the kind that comes before sunrise. The fluorescent lights outside the emergency wing glare against the dewy pavement. I park crooked between two spaces and don’t bother fixing it.
When I step out, the air is cold enough to make a shiver skitter down my spine.
The hospital doors slide open with a sterile hiss, and the scent of antiseptic hits me immediately.
My slippers squeak against the polished tile as I make my way down the corridor, past nurses and patients and the distant beep of machines.
Then I see him.
Emilio stands near the nurse’s station, his arm wrapped in a fresh bandage and resting in a sling.
His gray t-shirt is stained dark where blood once soaked through, his black jeans scuffed, his hair messy.
His expression is tight, a mix of exhaustion and barely contained anger.
However, the moment he looks up and sees me, that hard edge softens just a little.
“Hey,” I breathe.
I don’t even realize how fast I move until I’m in his arms. His good arm wraps around me and pulls me close, his body warm and solid against mine.
I sink into him, the metallic stench of blood, sweat, and antiseptic cling to him, drowning out the familiar scent of cedarwood and citrus I normally find comfort in.
“You okay?” he murmurs into my hair. His voice is rough, low—half worry, half relief.
“I should be asking you that,” I whisper against his chest.
He pulls back enough to look at me, his golden eyes flicking over my face like he is making sure I am real, that I am actually here. “I’ve had worse,” he says, though his voice doesn’t match the words.
He brushes a thumb along my cheek before letting his hand drop. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Outside, the sky has started to pale, streaks of light pushing through the clouds. I lead him toward my Kia, fumbling for my keys, the exhaustion making everything feel slower, heavier. I unlock the doors and slide into the driver’s seat, but before I can start the car, Emilio opens my door.
“Move over,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Emilio, you just got out of the hospital,” I protest.
His gaze darkens—not angry, just that he’s-not-budging look he’s perfected. “Rae. Change seats.”
I hesitate for a second, wanting to fight him on it, but the set of his jaw tells me it isn’t worth it.
With a sigh, I climb over the console into the passenger seat, pulling the blanket from the station into my lap.
He slides into the driver’s seat and immediately removes his sling, tossing it into my back seat.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
“It’s fucking annoying,” he says, flexing his fingers with a wince before shoving the key into the ignition.
The engine hums to life, and as he backs out of my crooked parking job, his free hand finds mine. His skin is warm, his grip steady—solid, grounding.
“You’ve been staring at those files nonstop for three days, Rae. I think it’s time to step away and come back to the land of the living.”
Emilio’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and edged with concern. I glance up as he walks out of the kitchen, the soft clink of his coffee mug breaking the silence.
After I picked him up from the hospital, he took a detour to my apartment to trade my car for his truck, insisting I wouldn’t need it for a while.
He wasn’t planning on letting me out of his sight, and, I didn’t argue.
What I didn’t know was that the other reason he wanted his truck was that he had somehow managed to smuggle copies of the case files from each murder for me.
So here I am, three days later, drowning in them.
Every report, every photo, every transcript is spread across his coffee table, overlapping in chaotic layers—a crime scene of its own.
Names, dates, autopsy details, time stamps—they blur together until I can barely tell one from the next.
Khloe. Liam. Bailey. Alexis. Their faces stare up at me from glossy photos, their smiles frozen in time, their stories ending in blood.
I trace their timelines again and again, my fingertips brushing over the ink like I can will a connection to appear.
Something the detectives might’ve missed.
Something that explains why this fucker is after me.
But the longer I look, the more it all unravels—the details smearing together until all I can see are smudged shadows and the thin, splintered lines in the table’s varnish.
“I can’t,” I murmur, voice rough from disuse. I flip through Khloe’s file for probably the hundredth time and scan the same paragraphs I’ve already memorized. My eyes burn, but I keep flipping through the pages anyway.
Behind me, I hear Emilio sigh. The sound is low, a warning cloaked in patience. “Give me one good reason why you can’t.”
I don’t even look up. “Because you almost got killed, Emilio. Because of me.” The words crack in my throat, raw and sharp, every word laced with guilt. “All four of these people—” I snatch the files up, the paper edges cutting into my skin as I shake them in my hands “—are dead because of me!”
He exhales slowly, the sound dragging out between us. “It’s not your fault that this sick bastard is after you, baby.”
“Yes, it is!” I snap, slamming the files down hard.
The papers scatter across the table, crime scene photos of faces I can’t bear to look at slip loose and land face-up. My trembling fingers gather the pages again, trying to rebuild the order, but it’s useless. Everything’s a mess—on the table, in my chest, and in my damn head.
I pull Alexis’s file up to the top, flip it open, and start thumbing through it, but the words swim uselessly before my eyes.
Behind me, I hear him move. The dull scrape of ceramic on tile tells me he’s set his mug down. I glance up from the open file on my lap, curiosity flickering despite myself, and watch him disappear down the hallway toward his room.
I drop my gaze back to the file. For a moment, I think he’s giving me space, but then I hear the creak of the floorboards again—his footsteps returning. When he re-enters the living room, I look up and silently curse.
The bastard is fucking shirtless.
The sight knocks something loose inside me.
The light from the table lamp brushes over him, casting soft shadows across his torso and highlighting the hard lines of muscle beneath the fading bruises scattered along his ribs.
A white bandage runs diagonally across his left shoulder, taped carefully over the wound that nearly took him from me.
His eyes meet mine, and the world narrows to just that look. Dark, steady, unreadable—but something is burning beneath the surface. Something I feel before I can name it.