Chapter 11
RAFE
Her weight in my arms is both nothing and everything.
She’s light—lighter than the weapons I’ve carried, lighter than the bodies I’ve dragged—but the moment I lift her from the floor of the ring, it feels like I’m holding the whole world.
The lights above are still too bright, buzzing with the static of a fight that ended too fast, and the scent of fear lingers in the air like smoke.
My chest heaves. My hands shake once before I force them steady.
She’s out cold, head resting against my shoulder, hair brushing my jaw.
I can hear her heartbeat, soft and steady under her ribs, and it’s the only sound in the room that matters.
The others are gone. Mateo’s men fled when they saw what I’d become, and for now, no one’s stopping me.
I walk out of the ring without looking back, boots echoing on the concrete, horns fading as my body pulls itself back to human form, skin aching where it stretched.
By the time I reach the van bay, I’m almost myself again. My breath is ragged. My arms are slick with sweat. My mind is clear, in the way a battlefield clears after the noise ends. I slip through the side exit, into the night.
Seville is quiet at this hour, the streets washed in pale streetlight, the scent of orange blossoms faint even here near the docks.
I know where I’m going. There’s an old villa half an hour outside the city, crumbling but still standing, built before any of us were born and forgotten by everyone who might care.
I’d used it once before, long ago, when I needed a place to bleed where no one could find me. It’ll be safe for now.
I steal a car from the alley, one of Mateo’s old sedans with the keys tucked in the visor.
I ease her into the passenger seat, tucking a ragged blanket under her head, and drive.
The road unwinds like a ribbon under the tires.
My hands grip the wheel too hard. Every few minutes, I glance at her, watching the rise and fall of her chest, making sure she’s still with me.
When we reach the villa, dawn is a pale smear across the horizon, turning the olive trees to silver ghosts.
The villa’s bones are strong but its skin is cracked—paint peeling, shutters broken, a courtyard full of weeds.
The fountain in the center hasn’t held water in decades, but the stone benches still stand, patient and cold.
I park under the old archway, kill the engine, and carry her inside.
The interior smells like dust and old rain.
My boots crunch on debris as I make my way to the back room where I used to sleep.
The bedframe is gone, but there’s a mattress on the floor, wrapped in a tarp.
I lay her down gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her eyelids flutter but don’t open.
I sit back against the wall, knees bent, breathing through my teeth, waiting. My body aches from the shift, muscles bruised from holding so much weight inside for so long. But none of that matters. Not compared to this.
When she stirs at last, it’s slow. Her eyes move beneath her lids before they open, wide and dazed, taking in the cracked ceiling, the faded fresco of some long-forgotten saint painted above the doorway. She blinks, sits up halfway, and then winces as the movement catches up to her.
“You’re safe,” I say quietly, my voice lower than usual, rough but steady.
Her gaze finds mine, and for a second she looks like she’s still in the ring, like she’s seeing horns instead of my face. Then her breath steadies. “Where are we?”
“An old villa. Nobody’ll find us here.”
She glances around, taking in the peeling paint, the cold fireplace, the broken windows letting in strips of dawn light. “You carried me.”
I nod once.
Her fingers twitch against the blanket. “You saved me.”
“I didn’t save you,” I say, leaning back against the wall. “I took you out of one danger and dropped you into another.”
She tilts her head slightly. “You’re shaking.”
I glance at my hands. They’re steady now, but I can still feel the tremor inside, the echo of the beast pacing under my skin. “It’s nothing.”
“No,” she says softly. “It’s not nothing.”
I close my eyes. The silence in the room stretches until it’s a weight pressing against my ribs. This is the moment. If I don’t tell her now, someone else will tell her later, and it’ll be worse.
“You saw what I am,” I say at last.
Her breath catches. She doesn’t answer.
“I’m not just a man who fights,” I continue. “I’m not just angry or dangerous or… whatever word you’ve been writing in that journal. I’m a bull shifter. Born to it. Bound to it. It’s not a story. It’s blood. My father was one. His father before him. It runs in the Calderon line like a curse.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“There’s more,” I say. “The Crimson Seal. That mark on my chest. It wasn’t just some gang ink or war brand.
It’s a blood oath. One we take when the hunger becomes too strong.
When the beast in us stops listening to reason.
Shifters like me, we were born with fire under our skin, and it burns too hot when we let ourselves feel too much.
So we made a vow. No mates. No attachments.
No softness. We sever that part of ourselves, bind it shut so the rage doesn’t spill over and ruin everything.
“It works. For a while. But it makes you hollow. Turns you into a weapon instead of a man. And the worst part is… it doesn’t go away. Not ever. The oath burns deeper the longer you live with it. The more you ignore what you want, the louder it screams.”
My voice cracks at the edge of that last word but I push through it. “That’s the truth. You weren’t supposed to see it. You weren’t supposed to be part of it. But now you are.”
She’s silent for a long time, long enough for me to think she’s about to bolt, or scream, or start praying under her breath. Long enough for the beast in me to brace for rejection like it’s a punch.
“I expect you to run,” I say, quieter now. “That’s what normal people do. That’s what you should do.”
She shifts on the mattress, sitting up fully now, feet tucked beneath her. Her hair falls loose around her face, and her eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them, but not weak. Not afraid.
“You’re telling me the truth,” she says finally.
“I am.”
“And you thought I wouldn’t believe you?”
“I’ve never given anyone a reason to.”
She exhales slowly. “You have now.”
I blink. “What?”
She leans forward, one hand lifting almost without thought, her fingers brushing my cheek. The touch is light, barely there, but it burns like fire under my skin.
“I believe you,” she whispers.
I don’t move. Can’t. The beast goes still, like it’s listening.
Her hand lingers a heartbeat longer, then falls back to her lap. She doesn’t look away.
“Then you’re not scared,” I say, my voice low.
“Of you?” she asks. “No. Of what’s been done to you? Maybe. But not of you.”
I close my eyes for a moment, because something inside me, something older than fear, shifts at those words. At last, I feel the weight of the oath loosen just enough to take a full breath.
The villa is quiet except for the sound of wind moving through the broken shutters. Dawn spills across the floor in long, pale lines. She’s still sitting there, still watching me, still not running.
I don’t feel like a weapon. I feel like a man.