“It sucks,” Rafe agrees. “But don’t beat yourself up about it. She wouldn’t want you to.”
“I know.” She sheepishly meets his gaze. “Can I ask you for a favor, though? There’s a memorial service planned for tomorrow night—I think your uncle is helping to host it.”
Rafe crosses his arms. Is he surprised by that revelation?
“Well, her family wanted a private burial,” Mara adds. “But they’re allowing this one for anyone who might want to pay their respects. Could you go with me?”
Rafe runs a hand along his jaw, his hesitation apparent.
“My parents are going, but they’ll be keeping the Wens company all night, and I don’t think I can stomach that. I know it’s pathetic, but I at least want to stop by. I would have asked my friend to come with me, but I can’t get a hold of her. Please?”
“Alright,” Rafe agrees. “I’ll go.”
Mara beams. “Thank you. I’ll even buy you dinner after if you want. I truly appreciate it.” She brushes her hand along his shoulder, but he backs away.
“Yeah, no problem.” He adjusts the paperwork on the counter, extending the distance between them. “Don’t mention it.”
“You’re probably really busy,” Mara says with a nervous laugh. “I nearly passed out when I saw the flyers that you were opening up your client list. I think I can name at least ten people right off the bat who would love to sport a design by you. Myself included.” Her cheeks flush prettily, her dark eyes gleaming. “Please tell me that you aren’t already booked out for all of eternity?”
Rafe inclines his head for her to approach him. “I think I can make an exception. Here—” he snatches a portfolio from the counter and offers it to her.
Mara flips through the pages, and I figure my expressions must mirror hers every time I view his art. Wide-eyed. Mystified. Seconds from drooling. Admittedly, she seems more impressed by the figure who owns the book than by anything inside it.
“You are so good,” she gushes, eyeing him through her lashes. “Do you do tattoos all over?”
“Where are you thinking?” Rafe questions, his gaze on whatever design she’s eyeing now.
“Hmm… What about here?” She places the book on the counter and lifts her shirt to expose her sternum and the very edge of a lacy black bra. “I heard some guys find this location sexy.”
I hate the jealousy that ignites in my chest, catching my cheeks on fire. A fire fed by the way Rafe’s eyes skim the flesh in question.
“Ah… Those hurt like a motherfucker,” he warns after clearing his throat.
Mara shrugs. “I trust you,” she says. “You’d be gentle with me, right?”
“Right,” Rafe says, shifting to a different area of the counter. “So, you wanna schedule? I can fit you in next week.”
“So far away?” She pouts, somehow managing to look beautiful and playful at the same time.
They hash out the details until her leaving is finally signaled by the chime of the doorbell. The second I creep from the hall, Rafe sighs.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” he snaps.
“Like what?”
“Like…” He rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. “Like I just fucked her over the counter. And maybe I should have. As often as she’s been sniffing around my ass, she definitely seems to want it.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I point out—but I don’t deny the jealousy either.
“You didn’t have to.” He storms to the front door and switches the sign from open to closed, locking it from the inside. “I can see it all over your fucking face. And why shouldn’t I be attracted to her, huh? You know how many assholes would go for that? I told you once, bunny. I don’t do relationships.”
But his posture alone warns me that his mood has nothing to do with Mara. He’s breathing too quickly, his shoulders tense, hands in fists.
“What’s wrong?” I demand, cutting to the chase.
“Wrong?” He barks out a harsh laugh. “Maybe it’s time I got some new pussy?”
It takes everything I have in me not to take the bait. He’s goading me on purpose, trying to get me to snap, much like a bullfighter waving red.
“You’ve been like this all morning.” I come close enough to place my hand on his back, but he jerks away. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“What you wrote… Was it true?”
I stiffen at the heat in his tone. Anger? Judgment?
Was it true—everything I can remember spilled out onto a page.
“Was it?” he demands.
“Yes.”
He whirls around and grabs my waist, lifting me off my feet. Two steps back bring us to the counter, and he sets me on top of it, stepping in between my legs.
“Where do you see this going, huh?” he demands, palming the contours of my body through my sweater. “After… Or is this just a fling? A game. You flout mommy and daddy’s wishes for a few days and then go crawling back. To them. To him. To the rules, and the money and the boring fucking life you hate. What is this?” He gestures around us with a wave of his hand. “Rebellion? How soon before you go running back to Bran, brother, or not? Just fucking tell me so at least I’m not surprised.”
“I can’t go back.” Hearing it out loud makes my chest tighten, and my eyes burn with the threat of tears. Hope? And terror. I’ve been lying to myself for so long. Admitting the truth feels comparable to ripping away a Band-Aid and reopening the wound underneath.
“I can’t,” I repeat. “If I wanted to, I’d be gone by now.”
He frowns, still suspicious. I have no choice but to broach the one topic I’ve successfully avoided until now.
I tell him about Branden’s ultimatum, and his expression transforms from
