"And my family?" I press. "Are you going to kill them too? Because they’re not going to stop looking."
"I don't kill people unless I have to. I'm not a cold-blooded murderer." The way his eyes bore into mine is frightening. I see right into his soul, see the pain of what my words are doing to him.
He's thinking about what he's doing to me and what it's making me feel, and he doesn't care for what he's feeling. I've found the way to twist the knife, but I know even if I carved out his heart and showed him how black it is, it would change nothing. He's desperate, and desperate men do stupid shit.
"You're a coward," I say in my most venomous tone. "You hide behind threats and guns and men who do your dirty work. But deep down, you're just scared. Scared of losing control. Scared of being alone. Scared that if you let anyone get close, they'll see what you really are."
Rafe's jaw tenses again, the thick muscle low on his cheek bulging as he grits his teeth, and I know I've hit my mark. I hate him, hate all he stands for, so why do I feel guilty for saying things I know are true?
Maybe I'm trying to get that rise out of him, to force his hand. So maybe he'll grab me and throw me around again and?—
"Get out of my office," he says.
"What?" Confusion slices through me like a dagger, breaking every conscious thought I have and physically aching in my chest.
"I said get out." He's calm now, not raising his voice, and his eyes stare through me, not at me. It's a faraway look that makes me feel panicked, like he's done with me and I'm nothing to him. And I realize I don't want to be nothing to him. I don't like him being done with me. That's not what I wanted at all.
I blink, confused. "Rafe?—"
"Now."
His voice is devoid of emotion, and it sends a chill down my spine. I stand there for a moment, waiting for him to say something else, to do something, to give me any indication of what he's thinking. But he just turns away, facing the monitors, his back rigid.
I walk to the door on unsteady legs and glance back at him one last time. He doesn't move or look at me, and I feel like this hurts worse than if he just put a gun to my head and shot me. Way worse.
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me, then stand there with my heart racing and my hands still trembling. I try to make sense of what just happened. The argument was familiar—heated, intense, full of the same sharp back-and-forth that always seems to flare between us. But this time, something was different.
He didn't do any of the things I expected him to do.
Or any of the things I wanted him to.
I walk back to the living room and sink onto the couch feeling hollow inside. The fire has burned down to embers now, glowing faintly in the hearth. The neighbors have finished hanging theirlights, and the porch across the street glows with warm, festive color, but it feels like a punishment now more than ever.
What the hell just happened? Why didn't he grab me or put me in my place? Why did Rafe shut down and turn away from the fight I know he gets off on?
I think about my father's face on that screen. The tears in my mother's eyes. The desperation in their voices. They're looking for me. They're worried. And I can't do anything to help them.
Then I think about what I said to Rafe.
The words were cruel. Intentionally so. I wanted to hurt him the way he's hurt me. I wanted to make him feel something, anything, other than that cold, controlled indifference he always shows.
But I wonder if I went too far.
Because for just a moment, before he turned away, I know I saw pain in his eyes. It was my point, wasn't it? To make him feel something.. And he did. But it hurts me as much as it hurt him.
And I don't know what to do with that.
I can't stop thinking about the way Rafe looked at me before he told me to leave.
I don't know what's happening between us. I don't know if it's hatred or attraction or some twisted combination of both. But I do know one thing.
Whatever I said to him tonight, it hit a nerve.
And I'm not sure if that makes me feel victorious or guilty.
12
RAFE
