I didn't sleep that night.
The sound of the storm outside had faded hours ago, but inside Rafael's mansion, everything still felt like thunder. The doctors had left. The guards whispered in the hallways, their footsteps too soft, too careful. And Rafael—my Rafael—lay on the bed like a wounded beast trying to pretend he wasn't hurt.
He should have been resting. Instead, his hand kept clenching the sheets, jaw locked so tight I thought his teeth might break. The gunshot wound on his side was still fresh, bandaged in white that was already turning pink.
I sat beside him, unable to take my eyes off him. Every rise and fall of his chest felt like a miracle—and a warning.
When his eyes opened, they weren't the soft brown I sometimes caught in quiet moments. They were black. Cold. Focused.
"They went after me on my own land," he said quietly. His voice was hoarse, but steady. "Someone fed them information."
I swallowed. "Rafael, you need to rest. You lost a lot of blood—"
