The storm that hit a week later wasn't like the last one. That had been a fury, a cleansing rage. This was different—a slow, suffocating siege. For two days, the sky was a lid of low, bruised clouds, the air thick and unmoving, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with atmospheric pressure. It was the tension of the Handler's deadline, now a palpable ghost in the halls. It was the tension of Rafe's silent, watchful distance. It was the tension thrumming between Yasmine's own ribs, a live wire of unsaid words and forbidden looks.
On the third afternoon, the pressure broke. The rain didn't fall; it was unleashed, a solid, roaring wall of water that hammered the villa, blurring the world beyond the windows into a grey-green smear. The wind howled, a dissonant choir screaming in the eaves.
The lights flickered once, twice, and died.
Darkness, thick and immediate, swallowed the common room where Yasmine, Leo, and Liana had been attempting to read. The fire in the grate, their only remaining light, seemed to cower under the onslaught.
"Generator?" Liana asked, her voice small.
"Rafe and Gareth were checking the flood drains on the lower terrace," Leo said, peering into the gloom. "They'll be soaked. It might take a minute."
A violent gust shook the French doors. Something heavy crashed outside, followed by the sound of shattering clay—one of David's prized pots, no doubt.
"I think there are torches in the hall cupboard," Liana said, standing up. "Leo, come help me?"
They felt their way out, leaving Yasmine alone in the flickering orange cave of the fireplace. The darkness felt different now. Alive. It pressed in, filled with the roar of the storm and the frantic beat of her own heart. She stood, drawn to the window, watching the chaos. A flash of lightning lit the courtyard in a snapshot of stark white—trees bent double, rain like silver nails.
The door from the kitchen hallway banged open, followed by a draft of wet, cold air and the sound of heavy, booted footsteps.
"Liana? Leo?" Rafe's voice, sharp with urgency.
"They went for torches," Yasmine said, turning from the window.
He was a dripping silhouette in the doorway, water streaming from his dark hair, his heavy coat soaked through. Gareth was behind him, equally drenched. In the firelight, Rafe's face was all harsh planes and shadow, his eyes reflecting the flames.
"The main breaker's tripped in the utility room. The panel's in the west wing storage closet," he said to Gareth, his voice cutting through the storm's din. "I need the master key. It's in my office desk. Go."
Gareth nodded and vanished back into the dark hall.
Rafe stepped fully into the room, shrugging off his sodden coat and dropping it on the stone floor with a wet slap. He was left in a dark, long-sleeved shirt plastered to his torso, the fabric outlining the powerful muscles of his chest and arms. He ran a hand through his wet hair, his gaze finding Yasmine. "You shouldn't be in here alone. The chimney could draft."
"Where should I be?" she asked, the words coming out more challenge than question.
His eyes gleamed in the low light. "Somewhere safe."
Another crash of thunder, closer this time, made the floor vibrate. The fire guttered violently, plunging the room into near-blackness for a heart-stopping second before it flared back up.
"Come on," he said, his decision made. "The utility room is more secure. No windows."
He didn't offer his hand. He simply turned, expecting her to follow. She did, trailing him through the dark, familiar corridors, the only light the sporadic flashes from the windows. The storm was inside now, in the damp, charged air, in the frantic rhythm of her pulse.
The utility room was a small, concrete-walled space housing the water heater, electrical panels, and shelves of tools and cleaning supplies. It was windowless, airless, and pitch black until Rafe lit a large, old-fashioned kerosene lantern he took from a shelf. A warm, wobbling sphere of light pushed back the dark, casting long, dancing shadows.
He set the lantern on a workbench. The space was suddenly, intensely intimate. The roar of the storm was muffled to a deep, threatening rumble. Here, there was only the hiss of the lantern, the smell of oil and damp concrete, and the overwhelming presence of him, radiating heat and rainwater.
He leaned against the workbench, crossing his arms, watching her. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes, catching the lantern light. "It'll be a while," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to originate in the concrete beneath their feet.
She leaned against the opposite wall, putting as much of the small room between them as possible. It was no use. He filled the space. "You've been avoiding me," she said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You know why."
She did. The archive. The photograph. His hands on her face. The claim in the common room. It all hung in the air between them, more real than the tools on the walls.
"I'm not afraid of your past, Rafe."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You should be. It's not a story. It's a contagion."
"And what about now?" she pressed, taking a small step forward. The lantern light gilded the side of his face. "Is this a contagion too?" This, meaning the magnetic pull that shortened the breath in her lungs. This, meaning the way his eyes tracked her slightest movement.
He pushed off the bench, unfolding his height. The small room became a cage. "This," he said, the word a soft, dangerous thing, "is a catastrophic failure in judgment. On my part."
He was close enough now that she could see the storm still raging in his grey eyes, could smell the rain on his skin and the faint, clean scent of soap beneath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird wanting to be caught.
"What if I want you to fail?" The whisper was out before she could cage it.
His breath hitched. His control, that towering, impenetrable wall, developed a fissure. She saw it—a flicker of raw, unguarded hunger so potent it stole the air from her lungs.
"Yasmine." Her name was a prayer and a curse on his lips.
He didn't move to touch her. But his gaze did. It dropped to her mouth, lingered with a heat that was more intimate than any caress. The space between them crackled, alive with every unspoken confession, every repressed touch since the night on the beach.
A flash of lightning—somewhere nearby—lit the slim crack under the door in a blinding blue-white stripe. The simultaneous crack of thunder was immense, a sound felt in the teeth. The lantern flame swayed violently.
In that split second of primal, shared shock, his control snapped.
He closed the distance between them in one stride. His hands came up, not to her face this time, but to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. There was no hesitation, no gentle question.
His mouth found hers.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a confession. A collision. It was the release of all the pent-up silence, the watched glances, the possessive tension. It tasted of storm-air and desperation and a longing so deep it felt like falling. His lips were firm, insistent, moving against hers with a hunger that was both terrifying and exhilarating. One of his arms banded around her waist, pulling her flush against him, erasing the last inch of space. She could feel the solid wall of his chest, the rapid, heavy beat of his heart against her own.
She melted into it, into him. Her hands came up, gripping the wet fabric of his shirt at his sides, holding on as the world narrowed to the feel of his mouth, the heat of his body, the rough, sweet abrasion of his kiss. This was the truth his silence hid. This was the man beneath the Keeper. And he was devastating.
He kissed her like a drowning man gasping for air, like a sinner seeking absolution he knew he didn't deserve. It was everything—heat, need, possession, and a underlying current of sheer, unadulterated fear.
It was the fear that finally broke it.
He tore his mouth from hers, but didn't let go. He rested his forehead against hers, their ragged breaths mingling in the close, lantern-lit dark. His body was trembling—fine, seismic tremors she could feel where they were connected.
"I can't," he rasped, the words raw, torn from his throat. "God, I want to… but I can't. I'm not… good. What I feel for you… it isn't clean. It's possessive. It's obsessive. It's the feeling that makes men like me do terrible things to keep what they want." He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his own a torment of desire and self-loathing. "You deserve softness. You deserve light. Not this… not me."
He released her as if the touch burned him, stepping back until his shoulders hit the shelves, putting the width of the tiny room between them again. The absence of his heat was a physical shock.
The kiss hung in the air, a beautiful, forbidden thing already turning to ash. The rejection wasn't of her. It was of himself. And that somehow hurt infinitely more.
Before she could speak, before she could even draw a full breath, the door swung open. Gareth stood there, a powerful flashlight in hand, his face unreadable. "Master key," he said, holding it up. "The panel?"
Rafe didn't look at Yasmine. He snatched the key from Gareth's hand, his face a mask of cold, hard stone once more. The man who had kissed her was gone, locked away tighter than any archive.
"Stay here," he ordered her, his voice devoid of all emotion. Then he was gone, following Gareth into the dark hall, leaving her alone in the flickering lantern light with the taste of him on her lips and the devastating echo of his words in her heart.
It isn't clean.
The first truth had been given. And it had broken them both.