Chapter 13 #3
“You mistake me for someone who begs,” I said. “That’s your problem, Rafael. You think wanting something is the same as needing it.”
He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his thighs, eyes glowing with fire and ice.
“No, Isabella. I don’t think you beg. I think you’d claw. Scratch. Bite. I think you’d fight me the entire time… just to make sure you still hated it. And yourself.”
The silence is electric. I can hear the blood rush in my ears. “You think sex is just that easy?” I ask. “That simple?”
He didn’t flinch. “It’s not supposed to be complicated.
Not for people like us. We don’t fall in love.
We fall into control. Pain. Power. We take.
We give. We destroy.” He let that hang in the air before he added, quieter, darker—“Pleasure’s just the cleanest kind of pain. The only thing I feel besides blood.”
I stared at him, and I hated how much I believed that. How much I recognized it. “…You think hate makes it better?” I asked.
He smiled then, but it was hollow. Crooked. “No. But it makes it real.”
I looked at him, really looked at him—and for once, I couldn’t find the line between threat and truth. And that’s what terrified me most.
He didn’t look away. Not when I blinked. Not when I exhaled. Not even when my hand shifted slightly closer to the dagger on the table between us. And I hated that it thrilled me—that he doesn’t flinch. That if anything, he looks like he’s waiting for it.
I watched the shadows flicker over his face, the flicker of the stitches beneath his skin, the slight clench of his jaw that reminded me that pain is still a very real thing sitting right here with me. And so is he.
Still shirtless. Still bleeding in ways I can’t see. Still the one man I can’t read as easily as I want to.
I leaned back slightly, resting my arms against the edge of the couch, my legs crossed, the weight of his stare pressed thick against my skin like a bruise I don’t remember earning.
“What is it?” he finally asked, his voice rasped, quieter now, as if the storm between us just dropped to a simmer.
I tilted my head, studying him. Then, slowly, I speak. “Why me?”
I let the question hang for a second, before adding, “Why keep circling me when you don’t even know if my next move will be to bury a blade in your throat?”
His eyes flickered—barely. But I caught it. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to surprise on Rafael’s face.
Then he shifted. Leaned forward again. Elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them, fingers flexing slightly like he’s either restraining himself—or preparing to pounce.
“Because I’m tired of women who fall at my feet with one glance,” he said, voice gravel-dark.
“They don’t interest me. They never have.
They’re easy. Predictable. Forgettable.” He lifted his gaze back to mine.
“But you?” He leaned in closer. “You’d slit my throat with one hand and steady my fall with the other.
And maybe I’m a masochist, but that kind of danger…
” His voice dropped a note lower. “That’s the only thing that’s ever felt alive. ”
My breath slipped out between my lips, and I hated that I felt the weight of his words curl through me like smoke. “You’re insane,” I murmured.
“You’re not the first to say that.”
I watch him. Let the silence stretch again, pulsing between us. “…And what are you looking for in me, Rafael?” I asked after a beat. “A new kind of obsession? A pretty pawn with sharp teeth?”
He huffed a laugh, low and cold. “If you’re a pawn, then I’m already losing the game.”
I felt the twist in my stomach. The confusion. The heat. The warning bells that won’t stop ringing. “You want me to destroy you?” I whispered, more to myself than him.
His smile was faint. Tired. “No. I want to see which one of us shatters first.”
And somehow, I think we already know the answer.
He watched me in silence for a moment. That kind of silence that wraps around your throat and dares you to speak first. But he didn’t give me the chance.
“You think I’m stupid?” he said, voice low but laced with that same cruel calm he’s mastered. “You came to my casino that night to provoke me. Not seduce. Not manipulate. Provoke.”
I stayed still, but my spine tightened.
“You gave me the necklace,” he continued, gaze never leaving mine, “not because you wanted answers. But because you already had your suspicions. You’re not as subtle as you think, Isabella.”
His voice dipped darker.
“You’re chasing a ghost. And you think the devil might’ve worn my face when he took your parents from you.
” A pause. “So tell me…” He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, that usual blade of precision back in his tone.
“What happens when you realize you sold your life to that same devil just to find out it wasn’t me? ”
My heart didn’t skip. It slammed. Because he’s not wrong. Not entirely.
I swallowed, jaw tense, and slowly rose from the couch—not because I wanted distance, but because I needed to move, to think, to breathe . I crossed the room and sank onto the edge of the bed, letting the coolness of the sheets ground me.
My voice came out quieter than I expect. “Then maybe I’m already where I belong.”
He tilted his head slightly. Watching me the way one might watch a flame to see if it flickers out—or explodes.
I lifted my eyes to him. “I don’t trust you.” It came out sharper now. More like me. “And I didn’t come here to be saved. I came to burn every name off my list until one finally bleeds the truth.”
He leaned back in his chair, lips twitching into something that’s not quite a smile. “And what if there’s no truth waiting for you?”
I shrugged, my voice steady. “Then I’ll take the devil I know over the silence I’ve lived with for fifteen years.”
His eyes narrowed, just a fraction. And mine burned right back.
Because I do suspect him. Or someone close to him. I’ve seen the clues, the whispers. But I’ve also seen him bleeding on my couch. Letting me stitch his wound. Letting me stay close enough to watch him unravel—even if just a little.
The tension hummed between us like something electric. Something inevitable. Still enemies. Still coiled tight in our own damage. But something else is forming here, too—something I can’t name yet. And maybe I don’t want to.
I lie back slowly, pressing my head into the pillows as my gaze found the moon through the glass. Its light cut through the dark like it always does—soft, pale, distant. Untouchable.
My body ached with the weight of the night. Not from movement, but from stillness . From having to sit across from him and act like the blood on my hands—his blood—was just another shade of red I was used to.
And maybe I am. Maybe I’ve always been.
I didn’t hear him move, but I felt it when the mattress dipped under his weight. He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that I caught the faint scent of his cologne and copper. Still faintly blood-soaked. Still himself.
I didn’t look at him right away. I just stared at the moon. “Do you ever sleep?” I asked softly.
A pause. Then, “Only when I forget what I’ve done.”
His voice was steady, like the truth costs him nothing. But I knew better. I heared the ghosts laced in every word he says. I think he knows I do, too.
I turned my head slightly to glance at him, and for a moment, I forgot the war we’re in. I forgot that I once imagined putting a bullet between his ribs.
He leaned forward, forearms on his knees again. That unreadable look on his face—half interested, half like he’s waiting to see if I’ll shatter.
“I wasn’t talking to anyone important earlier,” I murmured. “Not to you, anyway.”
He didn’t move.
“She’s… her name’s Anna,” I continued. “I met her a few years ago. She was a neighbor at first—somehow got under my skin when no one else could. We never talked about the past, not really. But she has this way of just… being there. Like she already knows.”
I paused. Then looked away again. “She became the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mother. At least, the kind I might’ve had if—” My voice cut off, but I don’t need to finish. He knows.
He didn’t mock the sentiment. Didn’t throw it back in my face like I expected. He just studied me in silence for a moment longer.
“You let her close,” he finally said.
“She earned it,” I answered. “And I don’t give a damn if that makes me weak.”
He shifted slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face. Not amusement. Not condescension. Something closer to understanding. But darker.
“I don’t think you’re weak,” he said. “I think you’re dangerous because you can still care. That’s what makes people unpredictable.”
I blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling now. I don’t know if that was a compliment or a warning. Probably both.
He leaned back on his palms, stretching out beside me just slightly, his presence still heavy even when relaxed. My eyelids began to grow heavier, the exhaustion finally catching up to me.
The adrenaline is gone now. The fire cooled to embers. But the pull between us remained. It always did.
His voice broke through the quiet again. “Is she the only person who knows the truth about your parents?”
I nodded slowly. “Bits and pieces.”
Another silence falls. This one doesn’t feel as sharp.
My body softened into the mattress, eyes fluttering once before I fought them back open. “I don’t sleep either,” I whispered.
I don’t know if he heard me. But I felt his eyes still on me as I slowly let the darkness fold around the edges of my vision, the moonlight kissing my skin like a quiet promise.
The silence between us stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. Not anymore. It felt full—of all the things we didn’t say, all the ghosts we let hover in the room instead of banishing them.
Then, his voice again, low and calm, but like smoke curling around the edges of a fire. “You know… you’re too similar to me.” He said it like a confession. Like a curse.
I blinked slowly, turning my head just enough to look at him, even as my body sank further into the mattress. His gaze didn’t waver.
“I’m nothing like you,” I murmured.
One corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smirk. Not quite anything.
“You are,” he said. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”
I huffed, barely a breath. “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”
“I think I know what it looks like when someone tries to bury their pain deep enough to forget it’s still alive.”
My jaw tightened, but I didn’t snap back. Not this time. Instead, I turned my body slightly toward him, my arm curled under my head. The words left me before I could stop them.
“Diavolo.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but I saw the flicker of something else. Something darker.
Recognition. And a spark of pride.
“You calling me the devil now?” he said, voice thick with amusement.
“If the horns fit,” I replied, a sharp smile playing on my lips.
He chuckled once, under his breath. “You speak like someone who’s danced with him before.”
“I didn’t dance,” I whispered. “I survived.”
He didn’t answer that. Doesn’t need to. He knows the rhythm. The same one carved into both of us.
My eyes drifted closed again for a moment, the weight of the day finally pressing too hard to fight. Everything felt softer now. Quieter. Even him.
I felt his eyes still on me as my breathing slowed, as the haze of sleep started to pull me under. But I didn’t feel afraid. I didn’t feel watched like prey. Just… watched. Like something being memorized.
The darkness was warm. For the first time in years, it didn’t feel like drowning.
And as sleep took me, my last thought was simple.
If he’s the devil… then maybe hell isn’t cold after all.