I’d let myself hope. Let myselfwant.
Only for him to push me away and assault a crew member like a madman.
It’s insane.
Raffael doesn’t lose control. He rules through surgical calm.
Well, hedid. Until he lost it. John Wick-style.
But why is it a default to romanticize that too? To allow whatever idiotic switch has been flicked in my brain to attribute male rage as protection?
I groan and stand, my legs aching as I fail in trying to exorcise the image of him holding me on his lap, soaked and hostile yet vibrating with palpable concern.
I hate what he does to me. That his nearness adds to the chaos in my mind.
I shut off the water and step out of the shower, towel down, then thread my arms through a fresh robe I find on an overhead shelf. The thick material clings to my damp skin, a poor excuse for armor, but it’ll have to do seeing as though my clothes are a heaping pile of sodden threads in the corner.
As soon as I enter the bedroom, his bathroom door clicks shut.
He waited. For what? To make sure I didn’t collapse?
I bite down on the thought.
Get your head out of the clouds. He’s just buying time. Avoiding you.
I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
I swear Raffael didn’t save me just because he was trying to avoid a manslaughter charge. He dove after me with the conviction of someone willing to risk their life for mine. Touchedme as if his hands alone could reverse the trauma the near drowning had caused.
And I’m so goddamn furious that he refuses to admit it.
If he needs me to make a statement,fine. I’ll make a statement.
If he wants me to be scared of him,okay.Sure.After his cinematic display of violence, I’m harboring a little of that, too.
But if he thinks I’ll surrender the reins to my own damn life based on half-truths and cryptic warnings, he’s gravely mistaken.
Iknowhe feels something for me.
Iknowhe won’t hurt me. At least not physically… I think.
And most of all—Iknowhe’s hiding something important. Something to do withmysafety.Myfuture.Mylife.
I drag a brush through my wet hair, the slap of soaked clothes hitting tile carrying from his bathroom. I try not to picture it. Picturehim. Naked. Glistening. Seething.
Stop. It.
I yank the brush harder. Faster.
Seems I’m speed-cycling through the stages of an existential crisis as if it’s a fucking side quest—shock, denial, heartbreak, idiocy… now rage.
But of course I end up at his bathroom door seconds later, drawn to him like self-destruction is trending.
The hiss of the shower turns on, followed by the subtle shift in flow that signals he’s stepped beneath the spray. I practically see him, fury made flesh, all carved muscle and brutal grace behind a blanket of steam.
There’s a buzz. The unmistakable vibration of his cell. Followed by the sliver of a muttered curse.
I expect him to end the shower and answer the call. But the sluice of water doesn’t change. He’s still under the spray as the phone continues to dance atop a hard surface.