CHAPTER 25
NORA
Rafe leaves three doors open.
The guest room.
The upstairs bathroom.
His bedroom at the end of the hall.
He does not announce the choice. He simply moves through the townhouse, turning off lights and leaving each doorway unobstructed, as though the entire house must prove I can cross it without permission.
I stand inside the guest room wearing one of his shirts.
The hem reaches my thighs. The sleeves are rolled twice. It smells clean, but underneath the detergent is something that belongs to him: cedar, cold air, and the faint metallic trace of weapons maintained too carefully.
My own clothes are in the laundry.
I could have taken another sweater from the wardrobe.
I chose the shirt.
That decision feels more dangerous than entering Pryce and Cole.
The licensing suspension remains on the nightstand beside my phone. My termination letter is beneath it. I turned both screens facedown, but the information exists without light.
I have no job.
No professional license I can use tomorrow.
No apartment I trust.
My father is injured and hidden because a man I met through a murder ledger threatened him.
The reasonable response would be sleep.
Instead, I think about Rafe’s arm around me in the kitchen.
He held me without arranging the next action.
No plan whispered into my hair. No promise to destroy Edward. No attempt to turn my grief into permission.
He simply stayed.
I open the guest-room door wider.
The hallway is dim.
Rafe’s bedroom light remains on.
I walk toward it.
His door stands open. He sits on the edge of the bed, attempting to remove his shirt without pulling the injured shoulder. The sling lies beside him. Fresh gauze shows beneath the loose fabric.
He sees me.
His hands stop.
“Nora.”
The way he says my name has changed since the first night.
It still carries possession.
Now it also carries caution.
“You need help with the shirt.”
“I can manage.”
“You tore two stitches managing.”
His gaze moves over what I am wearing.
The look is not subtle.
Heat travels beneath my skin, slow and specific.
“That is mine,” he says.
“I know.”
“You chose it.”
“Yes.”
He removes his hand from the shirt.
The room contains a large bed, dark furniture, and fewer objects than any bedroom belonging to a man who has lived in the same house for years. The broken watch tools occupy a small desk near the window. A photograph of his mother stands beside them.
No cameras are visible.
I know visible is no longer enough.
“Is this room monitored?” I ask.
“No.”
“Any recording devices?”
“No.”
“Any person outside able to see through the windows?”
“The glass is treated, and the shutters are closed.”
I look toward the shutters.
“They are.”
“Yes.”
His answers remain simple.
I step closer.
“You think I came to help with your shirt.”
“No.”
“What do you think?”
“That you are hurt, exhausted, and looking for something that feels like a decision you can still make.”
The accuracy irritates me.
It also makes lying impossible.
“Do you think that means I don’t know what I want?”
“No.”
“Then why are you sitting as though I brought a weapon?”
“Because you did.”
My mouth opens.
Rafe looks at my body inside his shirt.
Understanding arrives as a physical response.
“Is that supposed to be charming?”
“No.”
“Good. It was excessive.”
“Yes.”
Neither of us smiles.
The room changes anyway.
I stand between his knees.
Rafe does not touch me.
His right hand rests on the mattress. The injured left arm remains close to his body. He looks up, placing the decision physically above him and in front of me.
“I want you,” I say.
His fingers flex against the bedding.
“You wanted me before the suspension.”
“Yes.”
“Before the call from my father.”
“Yes.”
“Before the argument with Edward.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight is not gratitude.”
“No.”
“Or panic.”
“You are frightened.”
“That was not the question.”
His gaze holds mine.
“No. I do not believe this is panic.”
I touch the side of his face.
The beard along his jaw has grown rougher over the past days. My fingers pass near the small scar he refused to explain.
“Then kiss me.”
Rafe’s eyes lower to my mouth.
“Say what stops this.”
“I say stop.”
“Anything else?”
“If I freeze, you ask. You do not decide what silence means.”
His attention sharpens.
“Agreed.”
“No restraints.”
“Agreed.”
“No weapon within reach.”
He looks toward the nightstand.
A handgun lies inside an open drawer.
Rafe removes it, unloads it, and places it inside the locked safe across the room. He gives me the key.
I set it on the desk.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“No decisions about tomorrow.”
“Agreed.”
“Rafe.”
“Yes.”
“I am not asking you to become gentle.”
Something dangerous moves through his expression.
“What are you asking?”
“To let me choose the parts of you I touch.”
His uninjured hand rises.
Stops beside my waist.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
His palm settles against me through the shirt.
The contact is warm and steady. No force yet. Only the weight of his hand and the fact that he asked.
I lean down and kiss him.
The first kiss in the motel contained surprise. This one begins with knowledge.
I know the taste of him.
The stillness before he loses restraint.
The way his attention becomes complete, as if every room and threat disappears once his mouth meets mine.
Rafe lets me lead for three breaths.
Then his hand closes around my waist.
He draws me closer, careful of his shoulder but not careful with the kiss. His mouth opens against mine, and the heat I have kept separated from fear, anger, and trust rushes together.
I grip his hair.
A sound leaves him.
Low, rough, almost angry.
The response moves through me.
He breaks the kiss long enough to say, “Tell me if the shoulder limits become a problem.”
I glance at the bandage. “For you?”
“For what I want to do.”
“What do you want?”
His gaze travels down my body, then returns to my face.
“Too much.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the honest one.”
“Choose something.”
Rafe slides his hand beneath the shirt, along the outside of my thigh.
The touch is slow enough that I feel every inch of decision.
“I want to know what you look like when nothing is being taken from you.”
The words reach deeper than seduction.
I straighten.
Then pull the shirt over my head.
Rafe becomes motionless.
Not because he lacks response.
Because he is holding all of it in place.
Cold air moves across my skin. Bruises mark my ribs and hip. The scrape on my knee remains covered. I am not untouched, polished, or distant.
He looks at every mark.
His expression changes at the bruises he caused during the rescue.
“Do not apologize now,” I say.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“What were you going to do?”
“Remember.”
I step between his legs again.
“You already remember too much.”
“Yes.”
“Then do something else.”
His hand reaches my waist.
He waits.
I nod.
Rafe pulls me onto his uninjured thigh.
The movement brings our bodies together. I feel the hard line of him through his pants and the controlled shudder he cannot hide.
His mouth finds my neck.
Not where he placed his hand during the first kiss. Lower. At the point where shoulder becomes throat.
I tilt my head.
The permission is physical.
He understands.
His lips move against my skin, then his teeth close lightly.
Heat gathers low in my body.
“More,” I say.
The word changes him.
Rafe’s hand tightens at my waist. His mouth becomes harder, leaving a mark I chose where cameras once took images I did not.
The difference matters.
I move against him.
His breath breaks.
“Nora.”
“What?”
“If you continue, this becomes difficult to stop.”
“Can you stop?”
“Yes.”
“Will you if I ask?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop warning me.”
His eyes lift.
For one second, he looks almost offended.
Then he kisses me again.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt.
He catches my hand before I pull the fabric near the wound.
“Slow.”
“That is my line.”
“It is medical.”
“Convenient.”
I open the shirt carefully.
His chest is broad and marked by old injuries that were never cataloged for me. A pale line near his ribs. A circular scar below one collarbone. Bruising around the fresh bandage.
I touch the older scar near his side.
“Bullet?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Who?”
“Dead.”
I look at him.
“That answer has become less informative over time.”
“Later.”
No decisions about tomorrow.
We agreed.
I bend and kiss the scar instead.
Rafe’s hand closes at the back of my neck.
He does not move me.
He holds on.
When I look up, the control in his face has thinned.
“You have imagined this,” I say.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Do not ask questions that require humiliating numbers.”
A laugh escapes me.
It is the first sound of uncomplicated pleasure I have made in days.
Rafe watches it happen.
His expression changes in a way that hurts.
“You wanted that,” I say.
“Yes.”
“More than the rest?”
“No.”
The bluntness makes me laugh again.
This time his mouth curves.
A real smile, small and private.
I kiss it from his face.
Rafe shifts us onto the bed, keeping his injured arm protected. I lie beneath him for only a moment before the position presses against my bruised ribs.
He notices before I speak.
“Side?”
“Yes.”
He moves with me, arranging nothing beyond what pain requires.
We face each other.
His fingers trace my waist, stomach, and the edge of my bra.
“May I remove it?”
“Yes.”
The clasp opens.
The garment falls between us.
Rafe looks.
He does not praise me with words chosen from a catalog. His expression shows hunger complicated by something quieter, almost reverent, and that is harder to tolerate.
“Say something,” I whisper.
“You will dislike it.”
“Probably.”
“I have known the shape of you through clothing for months.”
My body tightens.
He sees the reaction.
“That was the wrong thing.”
“It was an honest thing.”
“Yes.”
“What did you imagine?”
His eyes return to mine.
“Touching you with permission.”
The answer unknots something inside me.
I take his hand and place it against my breast.
Permission.
His thumb moves over my nipple.
Pleasure travels sharp and immediate.
My breath catches.
Rafe watches my face, not his hand.