I step back. He steps forward.
“He put his hands on you for the cameras.” Rafe uses his rough, gravelly voice to dig at the buried Costa rage. “He threatened your kid. And you just stood there and took it.”
Anger sparks hot and fast.
“I had to.” The tremor in my voice is undeniable.
“You do not have to do anything anymore.” Rafe looms over me. “Fight back, Lucia. Hit me.”
I shake my head.
“Are you a coward?” He pushes harder. “Are you exactly what Dominic thinks you are? A weak, compliant little sister?”
The anger explodes.
I swing my fist into his solid chest.
It is like punching a concrete wall. Pain shoots up my wrist.
Rafe doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move a millimeter. “Again.”
I hit him again. Harder. The oversized leather jacket restricts my movement, but fury provides the strength.
I hit his shoulder. His ribs. Over and over again.
“He is a monster!” The scream tears raw from my throat. “Dominic is a monster!”
My fists pound against his scarred chest. Twenty-seven years of rage unleash into the freezing cabin air. The terror of the bathroom stall. The fear for Tyra’s life.
I break down.
My strikes turn sloppy. My breathing turns into ragged, desperate sobs. Hot tears stream down my face.
I pound my fists against him until the rage turns to exhaustion. I fall against him, my face buried in the dark fabric that smells of baked leather and gun oil. I let him see every single piece.
His arms wrap around my shaking body. He absorbs it. He takes every ounce of the terror and anchors it to his own frame.
His head lowers. His mouth presses against my forehead. A long, hard kiss. Then another. The rough bristles of his beard scrape my skin. His calloused hand strokes down the center of my spine in a slow, grounding rhythm.
For the first time in my entire life, the mask falls away. I don’t have to calculate survival. The cage door is shattered. The vast, open sky is terrifying, but Rafe is a solid mountain. He makes me feel fiercely protected. He makes me feel aggressively wanted.
My wet cheek rests against the rough fabric of his dark shirt. The sharp scent of cold rain and pure danger fills my lungs.
My hands unclench from his chest. My fingers slide upward. I trace the thick, rigid muscles of his shoulders.
His breath locks in his chest.
The slow strokes on my back stop. His hand slides lower. He grips the lush curve of my hip over the thick tactical canvas of theborrowed pants. The blistering heat of his palm burns through the heavy fabric.
The embrace shifts.
The air in the freezing cabin turns thick and heavy. A dark, possessive hum vibrates deep in his chest.
I tilt my tear-streaked face up and look straight into feral, golden eyes.
The emotional dam breaks.
I don’t know who moves first.