Not pain.
Death.
His grip on the spoon tightened until his knuckles turned white.
And suddenly, he was back there. Back in that room. Back in that moment.
Amara trembling in his arms.
So small.
So fragile.
Sofuckingbreakable.
Her sobs had wrecked her tiny body, shaking her so violently that Rafael had been terrified she would shatter into pieces right there in his hands. His chest tightened painfully. Last time. That was the last time he had held her. The realization hit him so hard his vision darkened for a split second.
He inhaled sharply, forcing air into lungs that suddenly refused to work.
No.
No.
He couldn’t think about that.
He couldn’t, but memories were cruel things. They came anyway. Her screams. Her tears. The wetness of her cheeks. Those hateful, broken eyes staring at him as he walked away from her that day.
God.
He had lost her.
And now…
Now it was too late.
Rafael swallowed hard, his throat burning.
Amara had been promised to him since childhood.
Five years old.
That was how young she’d been. And Rafael? He had always viewed their engagement as a curse. A prison. A punishment. By the time they came of age, there had been no escaping it. So he agreed. Because duty demanded it. Because family demanded it. Because men like him did not get choices.
When he turned eighteen, Amara had been sixteen.
By the time she turned eighteen… Rafael had discovered the world beyond duty.
Women.
Pleasure.
Freedom.
Temptation.
And somehow…
He began hating her.
