Page 89 of The Devil’s Feather

I stood my ground. “I know you’re upset; I’m fucking upset too! But the gun is only going to make it worse. This isn’t some moralistic posturing about right and wrong. What’s going to happen to me if you get killed or locked up forever? Remember that whole discussion about controlling your temper?”

Rafael’s lips thinned until they were almost nonexistent, and I swore I heard his teeth grind. Damn it, I would not cry again! But my lower lip quivered of its own accord, the fucking traitor. Shit, maybe I should so he’ll feel bad enough to listen.

“Please don’t get shot and leave me all by myself. Please don’t rob the world of your music.” If I had to fall to my knees and wail, so be it. “You said you would submit. If you really love me, you’ll put the fucking gun down.”

He bowed his head, breathing harshly. My insides filled with bees. Rafael kept swearing he’d never hurt me, but those muscles quivered with the scorching need to hurt someone. Boris’s pulped face floated into my mind, and I braced myself.

Finally, Rafael looked at the ceiling with a grating exhale. “I hear you.”

The clamp on my lungs released, and I gulped air. “Thank you. Now hand me the gun, please.” I gave him my best innocent puppy eyes. “Come on, give it.”

With a resigned grunt, he pulled a black 9mm from a concealed carry holster, checked the chamber and the safety, and set on the counter, muzzle facing away from us. I snatched it, popped the slide, and dumped the magazine, double-checking the chamber.

“Thank you,” I said sweetly. At his rising brows, I added, “I’m Southern, remember? Grew up with hunters and sport shooting. It’s been a long time, but I’ve never forgotten how to handle a gun.”

Rafael’s shoulders bunched, and he shook his head again. “You want me to de-escalate instead of lashing out, eh? Fine. I will try this your way.”

He swept past me.

I trotted after him. “Ok, where are we going?”

“You are not going anywhere.” He stopped so suddenly I bounced off his back.

I spat out a mouthful of red hair. “Just last night you said you didn’t want to be my captor. Did that change?”

Rafael raised his hands and slowly placed them on top of his head. He turned with blazing eyes. “No, but I do not have time for this argument, Elaine.”

I crossed my arms and planted my feet. “That’s fine. We can have it in the car. Last time we were apart, I got kidnapped, remember? Just this afternoon? You’re not leaving my sight. Where are you even going, anyway?”

A resigned groan escaped his throat. “Molly’s main residence is in Atherton, but that text came from the WiFi in her cabin on Skyline.” He showed me a tracing app on his phone. “Useful for keeping stalkers and vindictive exes at bay.”

Stalkers. God, I was so used to him I’d kind of forgotten he was famous.

“Uh, hello? Isn’t this a trap? She’s clearly goading you into doing something illegal so you’ll get arrested.”

“Yes,” he snapped. “I know.”

“Rafael, what the fuck.”

“You wanted me to submit. Here I am, submitting.”

Another drive I white-knuckled my way through, with angry industrial music thumping along to accompany us. Rafael whipped the Escalade through San Francisco’s narrow streets to the freeway. I longed for it once we reached the winding roads heading to Skyline Boulevard. He careened around the hairpin double backs and blind turns. Thank god I’d taken the Xanax, but it was starting to wear off.

We pulled into a driveway with an intricate wrought-iron gate. Rafael got out and kicked the damn thing off its track, shoving it open wide enough for the SUV to fit through. I kept quiet about the property damage.

He opened the passenger door with a grim expression that brooked no argument. “You drive the rest of the way. Stay in the car and keep the engine running so you can leave quickly. There is no cell service here, but record everything anyway. If I say get the fuck out, you get the fuck out—with or without me. If anyone tries you block you in, you run them the fuck over without hesitation. I will deal with the consequences. Understood?”

“Yessir,” I peeped, trading places with him and adjusting the seat.

Fuck. ‘Yes sir,’ really? I blamed it on his military background. He was obviously used to giving commands and having them followed without question.

The driveway was long and equally winding, leading us up a steep hill to a fucking mansion. On what planet was this a cabin? Jesus, who were these people? I pulled up sideways, blocking in three expensive sports cars. One was a Ferrari. I was too poor to recognize the other logos.

Rafael was storming⁠2 up to the front door before I even put the SUV in park. I rolled the window down to video everything on my phone. The Escalade was remarkably soundproof.

Molly sat on the front porch, vaping, in a white draped blouse over poured-on jeans; the kind of outfit that looked deceptively simple but probably cost an arm and a leg.

She stood up at his approach. “What’s your problem? You got your bitch back, didn’t you? What a downgrade.”