CHAPTER 3 - Rafe
Pain drags me back to the surface.
It’s not the sharp, jagged kind that hit me the first time I woke up—not the kind that felt like my body was splitting apart at the seams. This is duller, deeper, a slow burn that seeps into my bones and settles there like an unwelcome guest. My leg throbs under the makeshift stitches, the skin pulling tight with every twitch.
My ribs ache, a steady pulse of protest with each breath. I’m alive, though. That’s the problem.
The air smells of cedar and ash, the faint crackle of the fire cutting through the stillness.
My fingers flex against the coarse blanket draped over me, grounding me in the moment.
I don’t open my eyes right away. I listen instead—instinct kicking in, years of waking up in places I shouldn’t be honing my senses.
The drip of water against a windowpane. The soft creak of wood settling.
A faint rustle, like pages turning. No footsteps. No voices. Just her, somewhere close.
I crack my eyelids open, letting the world bleed in slowly.
The cabin hasn’t changed since I last saw it—wooden walls, low ceiling, shelves cluttered with books and odd trinkets.
The fire’s burning lower now, embers glowing faintly against the hearth.
Afternoon light filters through the small window, gray and muted, casting long shadows across the floorboards.
And there she is.
She’s perched in that same worn armchair, legs tucked under her, a mug of something steaming cradled in her hands.
Her dark hair’s still loose from its braid, strands curling against her jaw as she stares into the fire.
She doesn’t notice me at first, lost in whatever’s running through her head.
There’s a quiet intensity to her, a stillness that doesn’t match the chaos she dragged me out of.
She’s not fragile—not in the way most people are—but there’s something unguarded about her, too. Something that makes me uneasy.
I shift slightly, testing my body. Bad idea.
Pain flares up my thigh, white-hot and immediate, and I grit my teeth to keep it from showing.
The stitches hold, but they’re sloppy—functional, not pretty.
Her work, no doubt. My ribs groan under the strain, but it’s bearable. I’ve had worse. Doesn’t mean I like it.
She catches the movement, her head snapping toward me. Her eyes—dark, sharp—lock onto mine, and for a second, neither of us moves. Then she sets the mug down on the table beside her, slow and deliberate, like she’s buying time to figure me out.
“You’re awake again,” she says, voice steady. No surprise, no relief—just fact.
“Looks that way,” I mutter, my throat dry and rough. I don’t like how weak it sounds.
She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “Thought you might’ve checked out for good this time. You were out for hours.”
“Disappointed?”
A flicker of something crosses her face—amusement, maybe. “Not yet.”
I don’t smile, but I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. She’s got a way of talking that’s too calm for the situation, like she’s used to staring down worse than a half-dead stranger bleeding on her couch. I don’t trust it. People who don’t flinch usually have something to hide.
I force myself to sit up a little, ignoring the stab of pain that shoots through my side.
The blanket slips, exposing the bandages wrapped around my chest, the bruises blooming dark and ugly across my skin.
Her eyes flick over them, quick and assessing, but she doesn’t comment.
I don’t like being studied—not by her, not by anyone—but I let it slide. For now.
“Where’s my stuff?” I ask, keeping my tone flat.
She raises a brow. “We’ve been over this. You didn’t have anything on you when I found you. No gun, no knife, no cryptic note with your next target’s name scribbled on it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Funny.”
“I try.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You’re welcome to check the woods if you think I’m lying. Might want to wait until you can stand without keeling over, though.”
She’s baiting me, testing how far I’ll push. I don’t bite. Not yet. My weapons are gone—lost in the storm or stripped off me before I hit her land. Either way, I’m defenseless, and that’s a problem. I don’t like problems I can’t fix with my hands.
“What’s your name?” I ask, shifting the focus. She knows mine—or at least the one I gave her. Fair’s fair.
“Emilia,” she says after a beat, like she’s weighing whether it’s worth telling me. “Valdez, if you’re the type who cares about last names.”
I don’t, but I file it away anyway. Names mean nothing until they do. “Nice place, Emilia Valdez. You live out here alone?”
Her lips press into a thin line, just for a second. “Most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” I echo, letting the words hang. “What’s that mean? Boyfriend comes around? Guard dog I should watch out for?”
She snorts, a dry sound that’s almost a laugh. “No boyfriend. No dog. Just me and the occasional stray who stumbles in half-dead.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yeah,” she says, her tone edged with something sharp. “Lucky you.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. The fire pops, sending a spark skittering across the hearth. She’s watching me again, those dark eyes picking me apart like I’m a puzzle she hasn’t figured out yet. I don’t like puzzles either—especially when I’m the one being solved.
“So,” she starts, leaning forward slightly, “you gonna tell me what really happened to you out there? Or are we sticking with the ‘wrong place, wrong time’ story?”
Here it comes. The push. I knew it was only a matter of time before she started digging. People like her—curious, stubborn—don’t let things lie. I keep my expression blank, my voice steady. “Told you already. Couple of guys jumped me. Things got messy.”
“Messy,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word. “That’s one way to put it. You look like you went ten rounds with a truck and lost.”
“Trucks don’t swing fists.”
“No, but they leave a mark.” She nods toward my leg, the stitches peeking out from under the blanket. “That wasn’t a fist either. Knife? Bullet?”
I don’t flinch, but I feel the tension coil tighter in my chest. She’s sharp—sharper than I gave her credit for. “Does it matter?”
“It might.” She tilts her head again, a habit I’m starting to notice. “If whoever did that to you comes looking, I’d like a heads-up. Self-preservation and all.”
“Nobody’s coming,” I say, too quick. It’s a lie, and I know it. They might not be here yet, but men like the ones who left me bleeding don’t let loose ends dangle. I’m a loose end.
She doesn’t buy it. I see it in the way her fingers tap against her mug, the faint crease between her brows. “Right. Because people who beat a guy to a pulp and dump him in the middle of nowhere always just call it a day.”
“Maybe they think I’m dead.”
“Maybe they’re not that stupid.”
I meet her gaze, holding it. “You’re awfully curious for someone who claims she doesn’t care.”
“And you’re awfully cagey for someone who owes me his life.”
There it is—the jab. I don’t owe anyone anything. Not her, not the bastards who did this, not the world. But she’s not wrong, and that stings more than I’d like. I shift again, masking the wince as pain lances through my side. “What do you want, a thank-you note? I’ll mail it when I’m gone.”
She smirks, just a flicker, but it’s there. “Make it quick. I don’t like waiting.”
Despite myself, I feel that twitch at the corner of my mouth again. She’s got a dry edge to her, a bite that doesn’t match the soft lines of her face. It’s disarming, and I don’t like being disarmed.
“Seriously, though,” she says, dropping the smirk. “You’re not some random hiker who tripped over a root. Those scars—” She nods toward my chest, the old marks crisscrossing my skin like a map. “Those aren’t from a bar fight. Who are you, Rafe?”
The question hangs there, heavy and loaded. I don’t answer right away. I can’t. The truth’s a tangle of blood and bad choices, and I’m not about to unravel it for her. Not now, not ever. “Just a guy who got unlucky,” I say finally, keeping my tone flat.
“Unlucky,” she echoes, skeptical. “That’s your story?”
“Best one I’ve got.”
She leans back, crossing her arms again. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you’re a terrible interrogator,” I shoot back. “What’s next, waterboarding me with that coffee?”
She glances at the mug, then back at me, a glint in her eye. “Don’t tempt me. It’s lukewarm—perfect for torture.”
I almost laugh. Almost. It’s a rusty sound, caught in my throat, but it’s there. She notices, and for a second, the tension between us shifts—lighter, but not gone.
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” I ask, leaning my head back against the couch.
“Not a chance,” she says, her voice softer now, but still firm. “I don’t like mysteries in my house.”
“Then you shouldn’t have dragged one in.”
“Too late for that.” She picks up the mug again, taking a sip, her eyes never leaving mine. “Guess I’m stuck with you until I figure you out.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I don’t need luck,” she says, setting the mug down with a quiet clink. “I’m patient.”
That’s the problem. Patience wears people down, and I don’t have time for it. I need to move, to get out, to put distance between me and this place before the past catches up. But my body’s not cooperating, and she knows it. She’s got the upper hand—for now.
I study her, really study her this time.
The way she sits, relaxed but alert, like she’s ready to bolt or fight if she has to.
The faint smudge of charcoal still on her fingertips, a detail I missed before.
The quiet strength in her shoulders, the kind that comes from surviving something—maybe not like me, but enough to keep her steady.
She’s not afraid of me, and that’s dangerous.
Not because she’s a threat, but because she doesn’t know she should be.
“Why do you care?” I ask suddenly, the question slipping out before I can stop it. “What’s it matter who I am or what happened?”
She hesitates, caught off guard. “I don’t know,” she admits, echoing her answer from before. “Maybe I just don’t like loose ends either.”
“Loose ends get people killed,” I say, my voice low.
Her eyes narrow slightly, searching mine. “Is that a warning?”
“It’s a fact.”
She doesn’t flinch, but something shifts in her expression—warier now, but still curious. “Noted,” she says, leaning forward again. “But I’m not the one bleeding on a stranger’s couch. You’re the loose end here, Rafe. Not me.”
She’s not wrong. I hate that she’s not wrong. I’m the liability, the variable she can’t control. And she’s still sitting there, pushing, like she thinks she can crack me open with a few well-placed words. She won’t. I’ve spent too long burying the parts of me she’s looking for.
“Keep digging,” I say, letting a lazy edge creep into my voice. “You might not like what you find.”
“Maybe I won’t,” she agrees, unfazed. “But I’ll sleep better knowing.”
“Doubt that.”
She smirks again, smaller this time. “Guess we’ll see.”
The fire’s dying now, the warmth fading from the room.
I feel the chill creeping in, settling into my bones alongside the pain.
My body’s a mess—stitches pulling, bruises throbbing, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of my focus.
I need to rest, to heal, but every second I stay here is a second closer to trouble finding me. Finding her.
I can’t stay.
The resolve hardens in my chest, cold and certain. The second I can stand—really stand, not just stagger—I’m gone. No goodbyes, no explanations. She’ll wake up one morning, and the couch will be empty, the mystery unsolved. It’s better that way. For both of us.
“You should eat something,” she says, breaking the silence. She stands, stretching her arms above her head, and I catch the faint outline of muscle under her sweater. Not soft, not weak. “I’ve got soup. Nothing fancy, but it’ll keep you alive.”
“Generous,” I mutter.
“Don’t get used to it.” She heads toward the small kitchen area, her footsteps light on the floorboards. “I’m not running a charity.”
I watch her go, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. She’s a problem I don’t need—a complication I can’t afford. But for now, I’m stuck. Trapped by my own damn body and her stubborn curiosity.
The soup smells like herbs and salt, simple but warm. She comes back with a bowl and sets it on the table beside me, not bothering to hand it over. “You can feed yourself, I assume?”
“Been doing it for years.”
“Good. I’m not spooning it into you.” She steps back, crossing her arms again. “Eat. Sleep. Don’t die on my couch. That’s the deal.”
“Fair enough.”
She lingers for a moment, like she’s waiting for something else—another crack, another slip. I don’t give it to her. I pick up the bowl instead, letting the heat seep into my hands, and take a slow sip. It’s good. Better than I expected.
She turns away, heading back to her chair, and I let my gaze drift to the window. The storm’s gone, but the sky’s still heavy, pressing down on the world outside. Somewhere out there, they’re looking for me. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. And when they find me, I won’t be here.
I’ll be gone.
And she’ll be safer for it.