Chapter 9
LORETTA
Ramiro answered almost immediately.
“Hi, Loretta,” he said. “Is everything all right?”
“Not exactly.” I swallowed. “I think I’ve managed to injure myself.”
The admission stung more than the pain in my leg.
“Could someone come help me? A staff member, perhaps.”
There was a brief pause—just long enough for me to imagine his expression sharpening into concern.
“Sure,” he replied quickly. “We have a home physician on call. I’ll send him right away.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
The line clicked softly as the call ended.
I lowered the phone slowly, wincing as even that small movement sent a sharp pulse of pain through my shin.
The cut throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pulse accompanied by the faint sensation of warm blood trailing down my leg.
I set the phone back in its cradle by touch, my fingers unsteady.
My stomach tightened faintly, unsettled by the sting of pain in my leg.
The cut on my shin pulsed harder now, no longer just a sharp point of contact but a steady, insistent throb that spread outward with every heartbeat.
I bent slightly without thinking, one hand finding the edge of the bed to steady myself before I could misjudge my balance again.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
In.
Out.
In—
A knock sounded at the door.
I flinched so hard my shoulder hit the headboard.
“Is that the physician?” I called quickly, my voice weaker than I intended, threaded with pain and caution.
“Yes, ma’am,” came a male voice from the other side.
“Please come in,” I said carefully.
The door opened.
I heard the subtle click of polished shoes against the threshold, followed by softer, more hesitant steps.
The physician first.
Then—
That other presence.
I didn’t need sight to recognize him.
Rafael.
The physician paused.
I could hear it—the way his footsteps slowed, uncertainty creeping in.
“Did you come with someone else?” I asked the physician, even though I already knew the answer.
I turned my face slightly toward the direction of the sound, my gaze unfocused.
A beat of silence.
“Yes, ma’am,” the physician answered quickly “Mr. Rafael is with me.”
I exhaled through my nose and leaned back against the headboard, my shoulders loosening by a fraction.
It didn’t make sense.
Rafael had no reason to be here.
He didn’t care about injuries. He didn’t care about me.
At least, that was what everything between us had made clear.
Then I heard the physician step closer.
I heard the shift in his movement, the soft scrape of his medical bag.
Then—
“Don’t touch her.”
Rafael’s voice cut through the room like a blade.
I could hear the physician freeze instantly.
Every sound stopped except my own breathing.
My pulse jumped again, but for a different reason now.
“She doesn’t like to be touched,” Rafael added, his tone flat, as if he were stating a rule rather than explaining a person.
Of course I didn’t like being touched.
I hadn’t told Rafael the full truth—that contact from men didn’t just make me uncomfortable, it frightened me in a way I couldn’t easily explain.
Yet he said it so calmly, so certain, as if he already knew.
As if he understood my past. As if he knew exactly what had made me this way.
The physician cleared his throat nervously.
“Sir... I need to clean the wounds. Examine her. I can’t— I can’t do that without touching her,” he stuttered.
I could practically hear his hands hovering uselessly in the air, unsure whether to proceed or retreat.
My pain pulsed harder now, like it was reacting to the tension itself.
I was aware of everything at once.
The doctor’s hesitation.
Rafael’s stillness.
My own blood drying slowly on my skin.
Then Rafael moved.
“Then tell me what to do,” he said. “Step by step. You’ll guide my hands so I can administer the treatment properly.”
Then, softer—this time aimed at me.
“You’ll at least let me do this, won’t you, Loretta?”
I hesitated.
I didn’t know how to answer.
I shouldn’t have wanted him near me at all, and yet the thought of anyone else’s hands felt unsafe.
For a moment, I considered refusing.
Not just him.
Everything.
The touch. The examination.
My fingers tightened slightly against the bedsheet.
But the pain argued louder.
“I...” My voice wavered. “I don’t mind.”
My voice came out flat.
The faint rustle of the doctor’s bag opened wider.
I heard the careful clink of metal instruments being set out, one after another—clinical sounds that made my stomach tighten despite my attempt to remain detached.
Before Rafael could step closer, I shifted internally.
Then the mattress dipped slightly beside me.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
I felt his hand settle around my ankle.
Far gentler than I expected from a man like him.
The contact sent a familiar wave of tension through me.
My instinct was to pull away, to put distance between us, but his grip remained steady, giving me no reason to flinch.
"Easy," he said quietly.
The physician began giving instructions while Rafael guided my injured leg onto the bed.
His hands were careful and patient.
The complete opposite of what I wanted them to be.
I hated that.
Hated the warmth of his palm against my skin.
Hated the steady presence of him sitting so close.
Hated that I could feel his breath whenever he leaned nearer to examine the wound.
And most of all, I hated myself for noticing.
The faint scent of his cologne lingered beneath the cleaner smell of soap.
Not overpowering. Not intended to impress. Just Rafael.
I focused on the texture of the sheets beneath my hand and counted each breath.
This was the same man who had made me swear vows beside another woman's grave.
The same man who barely tolerated my existence.
Yet here he was, handling my injured leg with a care that made no sense.
I straightened slightly, forcing my shoulders to stay steady even though my hands still trembled faintly in my lap.
I didn’t even realize he was done following the physician’s instructions until the sharp sting in my shin faded into a dull, steady throb.
At some point, Rafael’s hands had stopped moving.
His hand lingered against my leg only long enough to secure the bandage before he finally withdrew. The loss of contact should have relieved me.
Instead, it left an unsettling awareness behind.
Fabric rustled.
Then the sound of him straightening to his full height.
The room seemed to tighten around his presence.
“That should hold,” he said.
His voice was calm and controlled.
I didn’t know whether to thank him or remain quiet.
After everything that had happened, both felt wrong.
Silence stretched again, like the room itself was holding its breath.
I didn’t need sight to know what he was doing.
He was studying me.
Like a man deciding whether something should be broken, repaired, or simply left alone until it proved useful again.
The physician cleared his throat.
“The wound should be checked again tomorrow, sir.”
Rafael’s answer came immediately.
“Ramiro will see that you’re escorted out.”
The dismissal was calm and final.
The physician seemed to understand there was nothing more to say. A moment later, I heard the retreating footsteps and the door opening before closing once again.
Silence settled over the room.
Then Rafael spoke.
“I can assign a chaperone to assist you with your daily activities.”
I frowned.
“A chaperone?”
“Someone to help you navigate the house until you’re familiar with it.”
I shook my head.
“This is my first day in this room. I don’t think I need a chaperone. I’ll learn my way around it soon enough.”
The room fell quiet. Then I heard him move.
Just one step. But it was enough.
My pulse immediately betrayed me.
“You have a remarkable talent for underestimating your own limitations,” he said.
There was no mockery in his voice. Only blunt certainty.
“I’ve managed perfectly well on my own for years.”
“Have you?”
The question was dangerously soft.
I hated how easily he dismantled my argument.
“Loretta,” he said, his voice lower now, “you do understand that being my wife comes with certain expectations.”
The words landed with clinical precision.
My chest tightened.
Air caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat, forcing me to drag in a shaky breath.
“If you’re talking about sex...” I began.
The word alone felt difficult to say.
My voice faltered, and humiliation immediately followed.
“Of course I know what is expected of a husband and wife.”
The words came out quieter than I intended.
“I know this marriage isn’t only a name on paper. There are just...” My throat tightened again. “There are things you should know.”
For a moment, I couldn’t continue.
Not because I didn’t know the words. Because speaking them aloud made them real.
“I don’t have good memories when it comes to sex. When people talk about intimacy, affection, desire...” My voice weakened. “I don’t understand those things the way other women do.”
A painful knot tightened in my chest.
“What I remember,” I said slowly, forcing each word out before I lost the strength to finish it, “is fear... pain... and force.”
I forced another breath into my lungs.
“You don’t have to feel trapped by the vows we made. If there are other women... If there are needs this marriage is supposed to satisfy, then find someone else.”
My voice was steady now.
Not because I was calm.
Because I had finally retreated behind the wall I knew best.
“I won’t stop you.”
He didn’t react immediately.
That, more than anything, made my stomach twist.
I could almost feel his attention narrowing—not on the words I had said, but on everything underneath them.
Rafael moved..
A subtle shift in posture that changed the entire room without changing distance.
Then his voice came again—lower this time, stripped of its earlier cold efficiency.
“Give me a name.”
I frowned slightly. “A name?”
“Give me the name of the man who did this to you.”
I froze.
My past pressed against my ribs, demanding space.
My father.
My own blood.
And the men who paid him to look the other way.