38
Scarred but strong
The whine of a struggling engine shattered the hush of the cold March night, and Brandy-Lyn’s heart thudded faster. The ancient Yamaha skidded to a stop in a spray of gravel as she looked up from the security feeds on the iPad.
Don’t judge. She’d been scrolling through every feed she could tap into, hoping for a glimpse of him. And a few minutes earlier, she’d greedily watched him with Elsa and Rosie and hoped that by taking the route past her place, he’d meant to stop.
Anticipation prickled at her senses.
Raff swung one leg over the seat and planted his boots on the ground. He kicked the stand down with a practiced snap, and the bike tilted onto it with a tired creak, leaning just enough to mirror the way he stood — slightly off-center, like he carried weight the rest of the world couldn’t see.
“Waiting for me, Red?”
The deep timbre of his voice — how it dropped just so when he growled her nickname — set her belly aflutter.
She drank in the picture he made at the bottom of the steps.
Tall, lean, and far, far too sexy. Sapphire eyes glittered beneath the porch light, pools of dark, conflicted emotion framed by thick lashes and emphasized by the black beanie pulled low over his brow.
Setting the iPad down, she patted the cushion beside her.
With long strides, Rafferty mounted the veranda and closed the distance.
He sank onto the bench and slouched back with a mighty exhale.
She hugged her legs to her chest, holding herself back from reaching for him.
Resting her cheek against her knees, she watched him in silence.
Deep lines furrowed his forehead, and his lips were compressed into a firm, unsmiling line.
It was the face of a very troubled man.
She waited till the swing stilled before asking, “Feel better after your ride?”
“Not really.”
“You should wear a helmet.” His recklessness worried her. Was it incidental — a by-product of his dangerous past? Or intentional? If she were a betting woman, her money would be on the latter. The knowledge saddened her.
He shot her a sideways glance, lips quirking. “Yes, Mom.”
The nonchalant attitude irritated her. “I mean it, Raff. I’d hate to attend your funeral.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, stark against the line of his extended neck. “Maybe … maybe that would be for the best?”
Her stomach flip-flopped. And not in a good way. “Don’t speak like that,” she rasped, gripping his upper arm.
“I’m just so fucking tired of disappointing people, Red,” he muttered, closing his eyes as if the weight of them was too much to carry.
She squeezed his arm. “Then don’t.” His biceps tensed beneath her grip. “You’ve had a shock, Raff. Sleep on it before doing something you’ll regret later.” Moving her hand down, she placed it over his white-knuckled fist.
Unbeknownst to him, his parents had already made the decision: the boy was coming here. Branna had put her foot down. “ Blood or not, there’s a boy who’s just lost his mom. He’s alone and needs us, Jonathan. ”
Brandy’s voice softened. “Your family will help you.”
He gave her another side-glance. “You don’t understand.”
“That’s what you said earlier. Tell me why.”
He mumbled something she couldn’t make out.
Her patience snapped. “Don’t act like a freaking teenager, Rafferty Lawson. Speak up.”
He shook off her hand and folded his arms, his expression turning mulish. “I killed the boy’s father,” he said, staring straight ahead.
She blinked. Twice. “You … killed his father?”
“Yeah.”
“I … I think I need more context.”
“The kid’s father is Miguel Oliviera.”
Her breath caught. Oh, Lord. “The man from … Brazil?”
“Yes, Brandy-Lyn. The man from Brazil,” he sneered. “The man who killed my wife. The man I hunted for over a year and beat to death with my bare hands — he’s the father of that boy.”
He surged to his feet, stomped to the edge of the veranda, and spun to face her.
A harsh, derisive laugh burst from him as he flung his arms wide.
“What’s he going to think of me when he finds out?
That I killed his father? Fuck, Red, I can’t survive another child running away from me with fear in his eyes. ”
Her heart bled for him.
“There’s more.”
“More?” Lowering her legs to the ground, she stopped the swing and rose. “Tell me,” she whispered. This close, she saw it in his eyes — something raw and unguarded.
Grief.
That such a brave man — a warrior in her eyes — grieved so deeply, hurt her. She longed to pull him close, to hold him and promise she'd keep all his demons at bay.
But some wounds needed to be faced, not buried.
And Rafferty Lawson had been drowning in his for far too long.
“You’re safe here, sugar,” she said gently. “It’s okay to let go. Whatever’s eating you alive — let it out.”
For a long, taut moment, he held her gaze.
Come on, Raff. Be the brave man I know you are.
But he closed his eyes.
Shutting her out.
Hiding again.
Dammit . She swallowed back her disappointment.
And then he spoke. “I’ve killed without remorse. Oliveira wasn’t my first kill.” His voice was flat. Expressionless. The tone she hated. “And, Red, I won’t hesitate to kill again if I have to.”
“Raff …” A tortured groan tore from deep inside her. When she tried to move her hand, he caught it, holding tight.
His other hand landed on her hip, anchoring her in place, capturing her gaze with his.
“I can’t be a father to that boy. And it’s not just because of who his father was.
” His voice dropped lower. Rougher. “It’s because of what’s inside me.
The darkness. The rot. My heart’s not red and healthy — it’s black.
Diseased.” His grip tightened. “And I’ll just fuck that poor kid up. ”
Brandy pulled her hand from his.
For one fleeting second, regret crossed his face.
Then it vanished, replaced by that practiced indifference.
“You’re disgusted with me too,” he said quietly, letting go of her hip.
“Never.”
She cupped his face with her free hand, brushing her thumb over the stubble.
“You’re wrong. So very wrong.” Her voice shook slightly, but she pressed on.
“I see you, Rafferty Lawson. I see who you are, all the way down to where it matters most.” She pressed her palm to his chest, right over the frantic beat of his heart. “Here.”
“You don’t know the worst.”
“Tell me.”
A haunted look flickered in his eyes. “After my father’s accident—”
She touched a finger to his lips, gently. “You don’t have to say it again. I know.”
His brow furrowed. “Know … what?”
“I heard you. That night. When you told your father about Italy. And what came after.”
He went utterly still.
“You know,” he rasped, the words strangled from his throat like they hurt coming out.
“But I also know this …” she went on, cupping his jaw.
“A man with blackness in his soul wouldn’t spend hours with a traumatized horse, teaching her to trust again.
He wouldn’t rescue an injured deer, nurse her back to health, and create a sanctuary for her and her fawn.
He wouldn’t put up with his brother’s moods or lie awake worrying about the sorrow in his mother’s eyes.
And he sure as hell wouldn’t ache the way you do when a child looks at him with fear. ”
His forehead dropped, breath shaky. “Red,” he groaned. “Stop.”
“No. You need to hear this.”
She slid her hand to the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tense muscle at his nape, holding him to her.
“You chose a hard life,” she whispered, vision blurring. “One most men couldn’t endure. You left your family to fight evil, to protect the innocent, to make the world better. That’s not selfish, Rafferty. That’s heroic. You’re not rotten. You’re scarred. But you’re strong.”
Her voice thickened. “Connor’s mom didn’t choose wrong. She picked you — for a reason. She knew you’d protect her son when she no longer could.”