Page 18 of Married to the Devil

An empty glass slips from my hand. It shatters on the kitchen floor. I should be cursing, picking up shards.

Instead, I stare at the man leaning against my counter, his massive body blocking access to the sink.

I’m having a mental break.

This can’t be happening.

That’s the only reasonable explanation.

He’s bigger than I remember. Thick shoulders, square jaw. His hair’s still dark though there’s some very faint gray at the temples. He’s still beautiful in a shocking, impossible sort of way, making my drab little kitchen feel like a shoebox. His suit hugs his muscles, and my eyes stray to his left hand. To the letters on his knuckles.

Ashes.

I’ve thought about him so many times.

Too many times.

He’s like a gap in my life. A hole that’s always there. A missing memory I know I can’t ever bring back. A lack that’s still a shape.

I meet his gaze.

The color of the calm sea, of mist at midnight.

Hattie’s eyes.

“You can’t be,” I say, head going dizzy, vision swimming.

“Hello, June. It’s been a while.”

I stagger, try to grab the edge of the table, miss, drop plates and more glasses, and feel the floor rushing at my face.

6

RAFE

Her eyes go unfocused and she passes out.

For fuck’s sake.

Six years. Six long years I’ve kept my distance. Now I break all my rules, shatter my resolve, take the biggest risk of my existence, to stand and watch her faint at the mere sight of me.

God, what a mess.

I lunge forward. She slumps and I catch her before she can land in broken glass on the floor. The girl must be asleep upstairs. I wonder if she’ll wake from this noise? June’s daughter. Our⁠—

I don’t let myself go there.

Touching her is bad. I told myself I wouldn’t. This was meant to be a check-in. A conversation at most. Hello, how are you, good, good, have a nice life. Now I have her in my arms, the woman I’ve dreamed about a thousand times over the last six years.

Every bit as beautiful as I remember.

Fuck, this is wrong. This was a mistake. I place her gently on a chair and get an icepack from the freezer. I press it against the back of her neck. “Come back to me, doll,” I say and that nickname is like a dagger in my guts.

I haven’t touched another woman since that night. I haven’t called anyone doll.

Not since her.

Her eyes flutter and open. She gazes at me in wonder as I keep the icepack in place. “Rafe?” she croaks. “You’re really here.”