“Nothing, but…”
The words won’t come, too twisted to voice out loud. His threat. His ultimatum. The fact that despite his deadline looming over my head, the prospect of going back feels as viable an option as learning how to breathe underwater. Impossible.
“He threatened you, didn’t he?” Rafe deduces. His fingers slip through my hair and find my chin, urging me to face him. “That motherfucker. What did he want? For you to come back?”
I nod.
“But that’s not all,” he suspects as though reading my mind. His fingers part through my hair and form a fist, using the handful to tug me further against him. This way, his mouth has easier access to my ear, and his lips brush the lobe, imparting a taste of his heat. “He did something. Said something he knew would make you consider hopping right back to him, scared.”
He waits for a reaction, but all I do is go limp, resting my weight against his uninjured side.
“I don’t want to think about him,” I confess. “Call it what you want. You hate pain, and I—”
“You hate facing him,” he says with a dry chuckle. “I’ll call that what it is, bunny—you’re human. But if you get to make little demands, then so do I.”
His expression is carefully blank, leaving me no clue as to his intentions. “What kind of demands?”
He takes my hand in his, lacing our fingers together before lifting them both for inspection. In a way, we almost resemble some twisted representation of a flame—a golden core with glimpses of ivory peeking through.
“You want me to make some money ‘legally’?” He makes the idea sound like a cross between outrageous and amusing. “Fine. But in the meantime, I want you to tell me everything. Everything he’s done to you from the very beginning. Your words. Your way. I want you to write it. Every last fucking thing.”
He manipulates our fingers, encasing mine within his. “That sounds like a boring story,” I say.
“Your story,” he counters. “Give it to me. That’s what I want.”
“Why?”
He nestles against the back of the couch, making himself more comfortable. “I told you the first time we met—I want to know what goes on behind those bunny eyes.”
More specifically—I want to know what makes a little rabbit like you so damn hard she doesn’t flinch when a man presses a knife to her throat.
“Fine,” I concede. “But I still think you’ll find it boring.”
“Trust me, bunny.” His good arm crosses my chest, locking me to his side. “I could use a little boring in my life right about now.”
He sounds so genuinely eager it unnerves me.
A man begging for some hint of boring normalcy.
While I’m running from it.
Chapter Seven
It’s starting to become normal, waking up to the scent of coconut, wrapped in warmth. Like this, I can forget everything else. At least until a heavy body stirs beneath me.
“You’re late,” someone commands against my ear, his voice gruff with sleep. “I expect my employees to be on the floor by nine a.m. sharp. I should dock your pay. How are you going to convince me not to?”
I open my eyes, stretching out my sore limbs. Gray daylight paints the room in hues of silver, giving everything an ethereal glow. The warmth cocooning my body only enhances the serene mood. I feel a childish desire never to move from this spot.
Going off Rafe’s relaxed expression, I think he feels the same—if only my hip wasn’t resting directly over a particular part of his anatomy.
“Even unconscious, you’re a cock-tease,” he remarks, his gaze heavy-lidded. “You can’t even have mercy on an injured man?”
I roll off of him, observing the rest of the apartment. While we slept, reality didn’t recede an inch—his blood paints a trail across the floor, and that infamous case is still in the entryway. I toy with the idea of seeing its contents for myself. Facing the truth might brand the harsh reality into my skull—this man is dangerous—a criminal.
As if sensing my train of thought, he runs his hand down the middle of my back, contradicting the hard image of him I should maintain. “We’re starting over,” he declares. “I’m a new man, bunny. On the up and up, remember? I’m making money the legal way. After last night… Don’t hold that shit against me, deal?”
I stand rather than answer, approaching one of the windows. The street below is mostly empty apart from the average passing car, but no police cruisers—for now. Still, I’m not comforted.
Branden’s deadline rings loud and clear inside my head—But will he if he knows the truth, Hannah? That you’re out here selling sex tapes on the internet while he funds your education? Or your school…
“You okay?” Rafe demands from behind me. I turn to find him on his feet, grasping an armrest.
“Are you?” I toss back. Some of his color has returned, but his chest looks even worse. I’d be surprised if his ribs aren’t broken. The pattern of bruising makes it clear what may have caused the injuries, though. The unmistakable imprint of the sole of a shoe. Or a boot. “God, Rafe,” I whisper in horror. “Maybe you should go to the hospital—”
“I’m fine,” he snaps. To prove it, he staggers into the hallway, moving with the speed and gait of a seventy-year-old man.
I follow him into the bedroom, where he makes a show of fishing a clean pair of clothing from his wardrobe. Only to howl in pain the second he tries to strip his bloodstained pants.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Let me.” I cross to him, dropping to my knees.
If I weren’t already aware of how this position may look, his low, agonized grunt would reinforce the awkwardness plenty.
“Damn,” he rasps.
I look up to find his lower lip seized between his teeth. “If I knew that getting fucked up was one way to get you on your knees, I would have gotten my ass kicked sooner.” His voice is too husky to entirely be joking, his mouth twisted
