Chapter 34 Rafael Santos
THIRTY-FOUR
RAFAEL SANTOS
Something’s wrong. I can feel the crackle of electricity the second I turn up the driveway—an invisible string pulling me toward some unknown threat.
Did Valentina and McCrae find out who I am?
Is Valentina in danger?
It’s that thought that has me pressing the gas, the engine groaning from the weighted trailer behind me.
As I emerge through the last veil of trees, my stomach plummets. That car’s here, again; this time, the doors are open, and its mysterious driver’s gone. Also gone is McCrae’s motorcycle.
Is Valentina here alone, with this lurking stranger?
I don’t have time to digest how that thought alone fills me with more anxiety than finding out my brothers had died. Valentina’s somehow changed from a villain to someone I want to protect, cherish, even.
Slamming the truck in park, I hop to the ground and shout, “Valentina? Are you okay?” The silence that follows is deafening.
I race toward the open door of the car, the putrid smell of sweat and alcohol assaulting my nostrils before I even get near.
As I peer inside, it’s obvious the person’s been living in here—there’s half eaten food and enough open bottles to fill a small fish pond.
I also notice the wires dangling near the steering wheel.
But what do they want with Valentina?
“Valentina?” I shout again.
I jog around the side of the car, determined to find Valentina before it’s too late, and freeze as I find the tangled heap laying in the dirt. I stare at it—or rather, the woman covered in blood, hunched over the body.
Valentina’s shoulders shake, her hands displayed to the sky as the blood caked on them dries in the beating sun. Gasping for oxygen, I force my racing heart to quiet, focusing on the sounds of her breathing.
She’s crying—gut wrenching, silent sobs filled with so much sorrow, my knees threaten to buckle.
I’ve never seen her look more broken, more defeated, and I ache to soothe her pain.
“Valentina?” I say again, this time more hesitantly. I take a step toward her before I notice the gun, glittering in the sunlight, partially buried in the sand. Bloody fingerprints wrap the handle, and I know if I’d simply pick it up, I’d have enough to ruin her forever.
But the thought is as bitter as it is unsatisfying—I want to pick the gun up, but not to hold it against her. I want to hide it—burn it or bury it, whatever must be done to protect her.
I extend my hand, but she seems lost to her grief, her head shaking back and forth as she stares down helplessly at her hands. As my raging heart quiets further, I finally hear her.
“What have I done? What have I done?” Over and over, she repeats the sentiment.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, hunching down to be at her level.
She finally lifts her head, seeing me for the first time. When she does, I notice the marks already bruising her neck, collarbone, biceps. Each imprint’s clear—fingerprints so harsh and deep, they burst the precious flesh beneath.
My heart rages against my rib cage, this time out of fury. I whirl on the intruder, ready to kill them if she hasn’t finished the job. As I do, I feel a single, tentative finger run along my arm before it falls.
“I’m sorry,” she croaks.
“What—”
“I shouldn’t have killed him. I destroy everything. It’s all my fault,” she sobs, her words growing louder with hysteria.
Finding the body completely unmoving, the giant bloody hole in his neck still oozing, I return my attention to Valentina. She’s spirally quickly, her skin growing whiter by the minute.
I reach out, not touching her, “can I help you?”
She bites her lips, her eyes never wavering from the blood on her hands. “You should leave me. I deserve whatever happens next.”
I can’t understand what she’s saying. I can’t reconcile this woman with the one I once thought she was.
“He attacked you.” Blistering rage pumps through me at the thought.
She shrugs, her lip wobbling. “You can’t attack a slut.”
Whatever part of myself I was holding back, reserving, protecting—it detonates, exploding into a tiny million pieces.
As gently as possible, I sink to the ground next to her, wrapping my arms around her quivering frame. She instantly melts against me, her head burying into my chest as sobs wrack her body.
“Shhh.” I run my hand through her curls, unsure of where to touch her but unwilling to let her go. “No one deserves to be attacked. No one.”
My words are her undoing. She cries out, her bloody hands fisting in my shirt as she clings to me. The sun beats down on us intensely, small beads of sweat peppering my skin. But I don’t move.
I can’t fix Valentina—I wouldn’t even try.
But I know without even asking: this is a pivotal moment in her life—one she’s been building up to far longer than I’ve ever known.
You can’t attack a slut? It’s a vicious sentiment, one she said with such certainty, I know it’s likely a statement she’s found herself living by.
What kind of torture has she endured, allowed herself to suffer from, because she thinks she’s undeserving of safety and protection?
Without thinking about it, I press a kiss to the top of her head, pulling her tighter to my chest. Her sobs begin to quiet, her body no longer wracked with tremors.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers again.
I inhale her scent, closing my eyes. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
And it’s the truth.
I still don’t know what happened to Jose, and maybe I never will, but I’ve come to know Valentina. She’d never hurt him—she feels guilt for hurting someone who so clearly deserves it. She’d never do something to hurt an innocent boy like Jose.
I know it my bones, without a shadow of a doubt.
“You don’t know all the horrible things I’ve done.”
It’s like she can read my mind.
I press another kiss to her head, resting my cheek there as I stare at the horizon, the sun beginning to set into a sleepy, haze-filled sky. “I don’t need to. You’ll tell me when you’re ready, and the rest doesn’t matter.”
She begins to pull away, and part of me wants to hold her tighter. I don’t, knowing space might be the one thing she needs right now. Valentina looks up at me, her eyebrows drawn as she tries to piece together something.
Finally, she says, “I don’t understand. I’m the villain—” She looks down at her hands, resting her palms up between us. “I’m covered in blood.” I know she means more than just literally, and call me crazy, but I don’t even care.
“You’ve done what you had to, to survive.”
She shakes her head. “I welcomed evil into my life.”
“You’re strong, V, stronger than anyone knows. You’ve done what no one else was willing to in order to protect yourself. So what if others see it as evil? I see it as amazing.”
Her gaze cuts to my core, but I don’t back down. Tears form on her lower lash line.
“Why’re you saying this?” Her voice cracks with the kind of skepticism from a lifetime of mental abuse. She’s untrusting of every person she knows, and I can’t blame her.
I drop my forehead to hers and close my eyes. “Because I care about you.”
I still don’t know how it happened, but it’s the truth, and I can’t hide from it another moment. I ache to kiss her, but I don’t trust myself to stop. It’s the last thing she needs right now.
When she doesn’t speak, I open my eyes and find her golden ones piercing mine.
“Can I take you inside? I’ll call McCrae to clean this up and you can get some rest?”
“But—” Her eyes flick to the lifeless form behind me.
I move into her line of sight. “You can tell us what happened when you’re ready. But I see the bruises, V. He deserved what he got. You’re so strong for protecting yourself.”
Tears skitter down her cheeks once more. “You see me as something I’m not sure I am.”
I wipe away a tear. “I’m sure enough for the both of us.”
Slowly, I stand, ignoring the ache of my back from sitting hunched on the ground so long.
I extend a hand to her, and she hesitates briefly at the offering.
“I’m not afraid of the blood on your hands, V.
I’m not afraid of you or anything you’ve done.
I’m in awe of you. Now, let me help you—not because you’re weak or need help, but because everyone deserves to have people take care of them sometimes. ”
She bites her lip and then slides her fingers into mine.
Once inside, she quickly retreats to her room without so much as a single word, and I stare at her door until I hear the shower click on. Pulling out my phone, I dial McCrae, and he picks up almost instantly.
“What?” he growls. I ignore his sour attitude, far too focused on listening for sounds of distress from Valentina’s room.
“You need to get home.”
“What is it? I’m busy.”
“I got home, and Valentina was sitting in the driveway, hunched over a dead body.” There’s silence on the other end, and I’m instantly filled with anger—all this could have been prevented had McCrae listened to me.
“You know that car you didn’t believe was here the other night?
Yeah, it was that guy. He attacked Val—”
“Is she okay?” he barks, and I can hear something rustling on the other end.
“No,” I snap back, leaning against the door frame. “She fucking killed someone, and she’s not okay. Not by a long shot.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“Him and every other man in her life,” I bite out, the implications heavy.
“Watch it. I’ve never laid a finger on her.”
“Exactly!” I shout, my frustration boiling over.
“Even when she needed it, you refused to touch her, comfort her. You treat her like she’s a fragile doll whose only purpose is to remain perfect up on its shelf.
She’s a person, McCrae, and she’s hurting.
She’s been fucking hurting her entire life, and she just needs someone to show her she’s stronger than anyone’s given her credit for. ”
“And that’s you?” His voice is borderline murderous.
I don’t answer him—it’s not him who deserves the answer anyways. Instead, I hang up and storm into Valentina’s room, the sounds of the shower hitting my ears as I take confident strides to the closed bathroom door.
Before I have a chance to lose the nerve, I swing it open, the words on the tip of my tongue, but I freeze. Valentina’s curled into a ball on the shower floor, still in her clothes, and my heart shatters at the sight. Without thinking, I open the shower door and step inside.