Chapter 9
RAFE
By the time we reach the car, she's stopped fighting. Just slumps against the passenger seat while I drive too fast through darkness. Back to the warehouse. Back to the only space on this island that feels defensible.
The drive passes in silence. She stares out the window at nothing. Tears track down her face but she doesn't make a sound.
At the warehouse, I pull into the hidden garage beneath the main building. The space that leads to my private quarters.
She moves like a ghost climbing from the car. Follows when I lead her toward the stairs. But there's no life in her movements. Just mechanical compliance.
The door to my quarters locks behind us. Secure. Safe. As protected as anywhere on this island can be.
"We failed." Her voice comes hollow. "Fifth victim died right in front of us. We couldn't save him."
"The summoner killed him remotely. Made him die rather than let us intervene. That's not failure. That's calculated murder designed to hurt you specifically."
"And it worked. Because now five people are dead.
Five deaths building toward this ritual.
And Elspeth is still being used as a weapon.
" She turns toward me, and the grief in her eyes could drown the world.
"What am I supposed to do with that? How do I keep fighting when every time I try, people die and my sister laughs? "
There's no right answer to that. No words that make this better. So I close the distance between us. Pull her against my chest. Let her break against someone strong enough to hold the pieces.
She doesn't sob. Doesn't scream. Just shakes with silent grief while I stand there being solid. Being present. Being the anchor she needs when everything else is drowning.
Could be five minutes. Could be twenty. Time blurs.
Then she pulls back. Looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes and an expression that's equal parts devastation and determination.
"I can't keep doing this. Can't keep feeling everything so much. It's too much. I need to feel something else. Anything else. Just for a moment."
The air between us changes. Charges with something that's been building since we started working together.
"Moira." Warning in her name. Warning in my tone. "You're grieving. Making decisions from pain. This isn't the right time."
She kisses me.
Her mouth crashes against mine with bruising force. No hesitation. No gentle exploration. Just raw need and desperation channeled into contact that steals breath and thought in equal measure.
My control doesn't just break. It shatters.
One hand tangles in her hair, the strands like silk between my fingers as I angle her head for better access. The other finds her hip, pulling her flush against me until there's no space left between us. She makes a sound low in her throat that ignites something primal in my chest.
Her hands fist in my shirt with enough force to tear fabric. Nails scrape against my chest through the material. The slight pain sharpens everything, makes every nerve ending scream with awareness.
I walk her backward until her shoulders hit the wall. The impact draws another gasp from her lips, and I swallow the sound, tasting salt and grief and the unique flavor that's purely her. Sea spray and something sweeter underneath. Wild and wounded and wanting.
She bites my lower lip. Not gentle. Hard enough to sting.
The shock of it travels straight down my spine. My hips pin hers against the wall without conscious thought, and the way she arches into the contact nearly undoes me completely.
Her jacket becomes an obstacle. My hands find the zipper, drag it down with barely controlled urgency. She shrugs out of it without breaking the kiss, and then there's just the thin barrier of her shirt between my palms and her skin.
I slide one hand beneath the hem. Her stomach tenses under my touch, skin fever-hot and impossibly soft. She gasps against my mouth as my fingers spread across her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast.
"Rafe." My name comes out ragged. Part plea, part prayer.
Her hands leave my shirt to frame my face, fingers threading through my hair with enough force to make my scalp tingle. She pulls me deeper into the kiss, tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes every muscle in my body tighten with want.
The scent of her surrounds me. Salt and magic and arousal mixing into something that makes my panther prowl beneath my skin, hungry and possessive in ways I haven't felt in years.
My other hand traces down her side, feeling every curve and valley. Hip. Waist. The dip of her lower back. She shivers under the touch, body pressing harder against mine like she's trying to crawl inside my skin.
I break the kiss to drag my mouth down her throat. Her pulse hammers against my lips, rabbit-fast and alive. The taste of her skin makes my head spin. I scrape teeth across the vulnerable column of her neck, and the broken sound she makes shoots straight through me.
Her hands grip my shoulders hard enough to bruise. Nails dig in through fabric as I find the sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder. Bite down just enough to mark.
She rocks against me, and rational thought fractures into sensation. Heat and friction and the intoxicating knowledge that she wants this as badly as I do.
My hand slides higher under her shirt, palm cupping her breast through lace. She arches into the touch with a gasp that's more moan than breath. The weight of her fits perfectly against my hand, and when my thumb brushes across her nipple through the fabric, her entire body shudders.
Then she freezes.
Goes completely still under my hands.
"I can't." The words come ragged. "I can't do this. Can't let this happen. Not like this. Not when everything is so wrong."
I step back immediately. Put space between us even though my body screams protest. "You don't have to explain."
"I want to." She's shaking again, but different now. "Want to explain. Want to make you understand. But I don't understand it myself. Just know that this is too much. Too fast. Too complicated. And I'm terrified of what I'm feeling."
"Fear makes sense." My voice comes rougher than intended. "This situation is complicated. You're grieving. This isn't the time for any of this."
The moment breaks. She won’t meet my eyes. Real world returns.
"I should go. Back to the inn. Back to what's familiar." She moves toward the door.
"No." The word comes out harder than intended.
She stops. Turns. "What?"
"You're not walking across this island alone.
Not tonight. Not with a summoner who knows we were at that cove, who killed someone right in front of us, who just used your sister's corpse to taunt you.
" I cross my arms to keep from reaching for her.
"You stay here. Guest room. Lock on the inside if it makes you feel better. "
"I don't need—"
"I know what you need." The words come out rough. "And right now, what you need is to not be alone and vulnerable when someone with necromantic power is hunting Flynn blood."
Her jaw sets. Silence stretches between us while her pride wars with practicality.
"Fine." The word comes out tight. "But only because you're right about the danger."
"Understood." I don't point out that she doesn't actually have a choice.
She gathers her bag without meeting my eyes. Moves past me toward the hallway, careful not to let our bodies touch.
At the threshold, she pauses. Looks back. "Thank you. For tonight. For trying to save him. For getting me out of there when I would have done something stupid."
"For now."
"And for... not letting me do something else stupid. Like walking home alone."
The admission costs her. I can see it in the set of her shoulders.
"Get some rest," I say instead of all the things I want to say. "We'll figure out next steps in the morning."
"Rafe." My name stops me from turning away. Her eyes meet mine, and the conflict there is clear even in the dim light. "What happened tonight. Between us. That can't—"
"That isn't finished. Whatever it is, it's not done."
Her breath catches. For a moment, I think she'll argue. Then she just nods and steps inside. The door closes with a soft click, followed by the lock engaging a moment later.
Smart woman.
I stand there longer than necessary, listening to her move around the room. The creak of the bed as she sits. The rustle of fabric as she undresses. Every sound heightened by predator senses that won't let me stop tracking her location.
My panther prowls beneath my skin, torn between satisfaction that she's here, safe, within range, and frustration that there's a locked door between us.
This is dangerous. Letting her stay here. Letting her matter this much.
But the alternative—letting her leave, watching her walk away unprotected—was never actually an option.
Tomorrow, she'll probably argue about going back to the inn. About not needing protection. About maintaining her independence.
And I'll let her win that argument.
But tonight? Tonight she stays where I can keep her safe.
Tomorrow, we hunt the summoner with the brotherhood's help. Tomorrow, we work on stopping the ritual before more people die. Tomorrow, we figure out who's using Elspeth as a weapon and how to end them permanently.
But tonight?
Tonight, I let her get close enough to matter. Close enough to become the vulnerability I swore I'd never allow again.
And I don't regret it.
The evidence remains spread across my table and if the pattern is right, the killing isn’t over. More deaths will follow. More drowned spirits bound and tortured.
My phone buzzes. Message from Declan. Nothing at the lighthouse. You?
Fifth victim. Failed to save him. Summoner knew we were there. Killed the victim remotely rather than let us intervene.
The response comes fast. Meeting tomorrow. All of us. We need new intelligence.
I stare at the message. At the evidence. At the closed door between me and Moira.
New intelligence won't matter if the summoner keeps killing from distance. Won't matter if they know our every move. Won't matter if Moira breaks the next time she sees her sister's corpse laughing from deep water.
What matters is finding the anchor. The person with both types of magic. The one who made the bargain years ago.
Find them. End them. Stop this before anyone else dies.
Simple plan. Impossible odds.
But I've survived impossible before. Survived cartels and betrayals and crossing an ocean with nothing but the clothes on my back. Survived building a new territory from nothing. Survived my brother trying to kill me, my fiancée betraying me, and my father banishing me.
I'll survive this.
This summoner thinks they're untouchable. Thinks their magic makes them safe.
They're wrong.
Because I don't need magic to kill someone. Just need to get close enough. And patient hunting always wins against arrogant prey.
The summoner made this personal when they used Elspeth's corpse. Made it territorial when they started killing on my island. Made it inevitable when they hurt Moira.
Now it's just a matter of time.
I can still taste her on my lips. Still feel where her hands gripped my shirt. The smart thing would be to keep distance. Maintain the walls.
But I've never been particularly smart when it comes to things I want.