His jaw clenches. “And what, you think that means something?”
“I know it does.”
I take a step closer, and the gold brightens.
Another step, and it flows up my throat, over my collarbones, swirling like wind caught in skin.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But I see his breath falter. I reach out and press my palm gently to his chest, right over the scar he tries to hide with ink and muscle and silence.
The minute I touch him, the villa changes.
It’s not a physical shift. The walls don’t move. The floor doesn’t shake. But thefeelof it—the air, the temperature, the rhythm of the room—pulls tight like a bowstring. Like everything is listening.
Rafe’s eyes flare, not gold, not brown, but both—layered, twin rings of light spinning like storm centers.
He doesn’t say anything.
So I do.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” I say. “I’m trying to meet you. Right where you are.”
His chest rises, slow. “You think I know where that is?”
“I think you’ve always known. You just didn’t believe you were allowed to go there.”
His hand rises. Not fast. Not harsh. He cups the muscles on my neck, thumb brushing the hinge of my jaw like he’s checking to see if I’m real.
“Kay,” he says again. “What the hell are we doing?”
And I answer with the only truth I have in that moment.
“We’re waking up.”
The gold flares so bright it blinds me for half a second, but it doesn’t burn. It wraps.
I don’t feel separated.
I feel whole.
19
RAFE
The villa sits heavy in the dark like a lung holding its breath. The stone walls press close, ancient and cracked, and the air smells of olives, dust, and the faint tang of the storm rolling in over the hills.
I lean against the window frame in the main room, watching the treeline beyond the courtyard. The old shutters creak against the breeze and my fingers drum against the sill, restless and slow, a rhythm I don’t even notice until I stop it. She’s in the back room. I can hear her breathing, slow and steady, like she’s fallen into some kind of trance instead of sleep. The glow still lingers on her skin. It’s softer now, muted, but it’s there. It’s been there all night.
I should be moving. I should be packing us out, finding another place, putting distance between her and this city that’s starting to smell like death every time I think about it. But I can’t. I keep telling myself I’m watching the perimeter, but the truth is simpler. I can’t take my eyes off the line where the trees meet the dirt road. That’s where trouble comes from. It always does.
The bull in my chest doesn’t like it either. He’s pacing, low and hot, sniffing for something I can’t name. My palms itch, my teeth press together, and every nerve in my skin feels like a tripwire waiting to snap. I light a cigarette just to have something between my fingers, watch the ember glow in the dark, and tell myself it’s just nerves. But it isn’t. It’s something else.
A whisper cuts through the wind.
I crush the cigarette into the stone and stand straight. My boots barely make a sound as I cross the room. The villa’s doors are old but solid. The locks mean nothing to people like us. I listen again. Nothing. No crickets. No cicadas. Just the soft roll of air over the hills.
I slip out into the courtyard, the night air sliding against my skin like a warning. The fountain in the center is dry but full of weeds. I crouch beside it, scanning the treeline. My hands stay loose at my sides, but inside I’m already shifting weight to my heels, ready to move.
Then I smell it.
