She brushes a stray lock behind my ear, and I catch the reflection of my own eyes looking back—sharper, more awake. “There, much better,” she says in a no-nonsense tone.
I turn my head, test the weight, toss it back as if to practice a new expression. It lands exactly where I want: daring, composed, not apologetic.
I smile at myself, real and small. I like her.
The Ducati growls beneath me,the vibration runs up through my arms, into my shoulders, loosening muscles that have been locked for hours. The wind cuts through the air, cold and sharp, and it feels good against the heat of my skin.
The heat’s not from the ride.
It’s from the blood.
It’s everywhere, dried in streaks down my forearms, flaked into my hair, sticky on my collar. Not mine. None of it is mine. Every drop belongs to someone who thought they could hurt her and walk away.
Gray's handling Roberto like I told him to. I trust him to make sure the bastard is put somewhere very uncomfortable.
My body’s running on fumes after not having slept for so long. I'm still aching from what Don Aurelio did to me earlier, bruises deep in places I don’t even want to think about right now. All I want is to get home, strip this filth off, and stand under water hot enough to burn until it’s all gone.
I can’t let Sophia see me like this.
The image flashes, uninvited, in front of me. Her eyes catching the stains on my shirt, the cuts on my knuckles, the way I reek of blood and smoke. No. I need to be clean before she looks at me. She’s had enough nightmares. She doesn’t need me to be one of them.
The road curves, and trees crowd the edge of my vision. I wonder if she’s awake yet. If she’s stepped out of that room. If she’s looked out into the woods the way I saw her do last night, like she’s halfway between wanting to run and wanting to belong.
Lexy’s there.
I made sure of it.
I’ve got more men stationed around the property to keep Sophia safe, but I told them to keep their distance. I figured it would be easier for her to see a woman than another guy with a gun on his hip. Lexy can handle herself—MI5 taught her that—but she can also smile without making it look like a threat.
Sophia needs that right now.
God knows, I’m not the one who can give it to her.
I lean into the next curve, letting the engine roar, while the dark road opens up ahead of me. Home’s not far now.
The Ducati’s growl fades as I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and swing my leg over. My boots are heavy on the walk to the door. My muscles are stiff from the ride, from the fight, from everything. Inside, the warmth of the house hits me, laced with the faint smell of coffee and something sweet, pancakes, maybe.
I miss my opportunity to duck unseen down the hallway, too mesmerized, too rooted to the spot by the sound ofhervoice. Sophia’s. Inmyhouse. In the house I built forus. Lexy enters my field of vision first, she’s talking, saying something I can’t quite catch because my eyes have already gone past her.
Sophia.
She’s keeping enough distance between herself and Lexy to make a run for it if she needs to. That hits me harder than I want to admit.
I stop breathing the second my eyes fall on her. She’s wearing the off-white cashmere I picked—soft, expensive, the kind of thing that says quiet money—and a pair of designer jeans. I was aiming for vulnerable. I missed. Everything I imagined the clothes would do for her is already obsolete the moment she steps into the light. Nothing does her justice. Nothing I’ve pictured comes close.
She’s not a fairy tale anymore. Not an angel. Not anything pretty one might keep on a shelf. She’s a woman who could close a room with a look. There’s an effortless grace to her now, an authority that doesn’t shout. It hums.
Her hair kills me. The long waves are gone. In their place is a blunt, chin-skimming bob that flips under with the kind of precision you don’t get from a rinse and a roll. It’s sharp and soft at the same time, polished, not precious. It frames her face like a blade frames a fist. Her cheekbones cut the light. Her throat is exposed in that way that makes a man want to promise things he can’t keep.
I want to step forward, touch the hair, feel its weight between my fingers. I want to tell her she looks dangerous and perfect. I want to keep her from every ugly thing that’s ever touched her. I don’t move.
Her gaze drops, catches the blood on my shirt, my arms, the dried streaks I didn’t have time to clean. The color drains from her face.
"Raffael?" Her voice is small, careful. "What happened to you?"
I stand there, every instinct screams for me to move, to tell her something—anything—but my body won’t listen. I didn’t want her to see me like this. Now I’m frozen, too.
"It’s not mine," I manage.
