“I’m on my way there now,” Rafe grunts.
I risk a glance in the rearview, at this rage-filled man who makes my soul – and, okay, my body – do confusing and contradictory things. The scene Mom’s phone call interrupted is tattooed onto me, stinging, hot. He was like a wild man when he tore my shirt down and began to feast on me. Like he savors every mark, every sign of my pregnancy.
I push all that deep down. Or try to.
You should not be thinking of that now, I scream on repeat in my head.
“Can you drive faster?” I ask.
“Not with Theo in the car,” Rafe snarls.
I chew my lip, looking at our wailing son. He’s right, obviously. I know that. And yet I can’t stop thinking about Mom and Dad, unprotected in their house. Once the cops leave, maybe those men will come back. Men who are only in our world because of Rafe, because of that magical night.
I look at him in the mirror again, trying to make myself resent him, to hate him for claiming me. But I can’t. Because that night – and even now, somehow – I wanted to be claimed.
Finally, we pull up outside the house. I get Theo from the back seat, cradling him to my chest. He’s crying more softly now, but still shuddering and whimpering. I stop when I realize Rafe’s not following.
“Rafe?”
He grinds his teeth, then nods to the police car. “I’ll wait down the street. Once they’re gone, I’ll join you.”
My stomach tightens as I hold our son to my chest. It’s just another reminder of how different our worlds are. Or should be.
Rushing inside, I find Mom and Dad on the couch, two uniformed police officers speaking with them.
“Uh, hi. I’m their daughter.”
“We’re almost done here,” one of the officers says.
“I can wait in the kitchen.”
He nods, then turns to my mom. “Did you notice anybody suspicious on the street?”
I retreat to the living room, relieved they won’t be questioning me. That would mean lying to the cops… lying to protect this stranger who just so happens to be the father of my baby and the man who makes my heart do somersaults.
I sit with Theo on my knee, gently rocking him. He’s finally settled down now, head lolling with the motion. After what feels like forever, Dad appears in the doorway, a tired look on his face. “The police have left. I think they need to question the whole neighborhood.”
I feel sick just looking at him. Every second I’m not explaining that I know more, is another second I’m betraying him.
When I join them in the living room, Mom is flicking through news stations.
“The police have no clue,” she snaps, huffing. “No idea why people would be shooting onthisstreet, where the worst that happens is Jocie Carraway cheats at the annual baking competition. What sort of madness is this?”
I sit, swallowing a ball of nerves.
I need to tell them. Now. I should’ve already told them.
The gun fight was between the security, my mafia man sort-of boyfriend posted outside your house… and the Hungarian mob, who my boss sort of has ties with.
There’s a heavy knock at the door.
“What now?” Dad groans, standing.
Dad returns a moment later, raising his eyebrows at me as Rafe towers behind him. Rafe looks serious and focused.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ward,” he says, standing at the door with his arms behind his back. “You’re going to need to come with me. I’m moving all four of you into the suite of a hotel until this is over.”
Mom turns to him slowly, like she’s just woken up from a dream. “Until what is over?”
