“Raffael…” My voice breaks, the weight of exhaustion affecting everything inside me.
His head jerks upright, his bloodshot eyes taking me in. He’s the epitome of despair—suit crinkled, hair ruffled, no hint of the immaculately styled businessman, yet even in ruins he’s the most beautiful sight to be seen.
I shove back the covers, ignoring the protest of my heavy limbs, and scramble to him. I fumble onto his lap and bury my face in his neck.
“You’re safe.” His arms lock around me.
I close my eyes, scrunch my nose, and fight the soul-crushing relief.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs into my hair.
I nod, unable to put voice to the lie.
I’m not strong enough to think about where I’ve been, only where I am.
I touch him—his jaw, his chest, the coarse fabric of his shirt—attempting to ground myself in everything that’s Raffael. The pulse at his throat. The heat of his skin. Contact feels different now. More intense. Essential.
“Are you hurt?” he asks. “I had a doctor look over you but…”
I shake my head, fighting the memories. The cage. The questions.
I press a soft kiss to his neck. Another along his jaw. Below his ear. I attempt to drown the visuals before they surface. To outpace the images clawing at the edge of my mind. But they grow in clarity, creeping closer, threatening to consume.
I kiss him faster. Harder. His chin. His nose. His brow. While he remains still, his arms fixed in place as my mouth maps his skin.
“Isla…” He cups my jaw and gently retreats.
What stares back at me is torment. Guilt. Regret. A thousand apologies bleeding through his expression to meddle with my fortitude.
“I’m sorry.” His thumbs whisper over my cheeks. “So fucking sorry.”
I hang my head, beating back the savagery of his tenderness.
I’mnotgoing to ruin this with tears.
If I start, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop.
“Isla…” He tilts my face, demanding my attention.
I keep my blurring eyes downcast, unable to withstand his suffering on top of my own.
“Look at me.” He presses a kiss to my brow, the delicate sweep undoing me.
I swallow a whimper, hold my breath, and meet his gaze.
His stare remains hollow. His expression, carved in agony—the exact visual representation of how I feel. But there’s more. A small cut on his lower lip I hadn’t notice before. A faint shadow of bruising along his left cheekbone.
I graze my fingers along the slightly swollen skin. “What happened?”
He shakes his head, the dismissal bringing a chill.
“Did they hurt you?” I ask. “Were they both in the house?”
“Isla.” My name holds a warning. Soft, patient, but cautionary.
The chill spreads, seeping into my veins, filtering through to my stomach. “Are they dead?”
Those men were dangerous. Violent. Both having ties to the mafia. If Raffael killed them because of me?—