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His words made her pause and she shook her head, expelling a long, seething breath. She bent over and scooped up the arrows, shoving them into the quiver, and she brushed past him, stalking to the opposite end of the expanse. “If you don’t want an arrow in your leg, stay out of my way.”
Venomous anger directed at him that he started to take offense at, but then it hit him.
She wasn’t angry at him. She was furious at the world in general because she was worried about Eva and she couldn’t do anything to help save her.
That was what this was.
And he’d somehow managed to figure that out, not knowing anything about a beating heart with feelings.
A grin playing at his lips, he followed her and settled himself on the far side of the alley by the thick shrubbery, folding his arms across his chest and watching her profile as she sent arrow after arrow careening toward the target, as livid as ever.
That first arrow hadn’t been a fluke. She was a good shot, only one arrow sliding to the left of the hay target. And that one rogue arrow had been the result of a furious breath that had escaped her lips just as she released the string.
Halfway through the pile of arrows, he broke the thick silence.
“Why do you hate your father?”
“I don’t hate him.”
“What do you feel for him then?”
“Nothing. Everything. Hate—love—frustration—kindness—ambivalence.” She let the arrow fly. Straight into the blue ring.
“Tell me about the time when your father came back. When was it? Five years ago? More? Less?” He knew full well the answer to that, for he had followed Desmond, Roe and Reiner’s ship back to England. Followed them until they were settled in life. Until they had something to lose. A lot to lose.
Victoria notched another arrow and lifted it into place. “Three years ago. And it was hard. He was gone, dead, my whole life. So my father only existed as the person that I made up in my imagination for him to be. Then he suddenly appeared out of nowhere—and it broke my heart. Broke it because my imaginary father was nothing like my real, live father. Desmond appeared and killed that man I imagined him to be, and I loved that fictional father. Loved him so much. It broke my heart because my real father had chosen to stay away from me for so long.”
She exhaled a breath and then let the arrow go. It went wide of the target and she shook her head, her lips curling into a snarl before she fished another arrow out of the quiver and readied it as she spoke.
“I know he didn’t know I existed. I know he couldn’t have known. I know he would have been back to me in an instant if he had known. I understand all of that. But my heart…my heart was shattered. He never came back for me. Not even to visit my grave. Was I not worth that? Worth one trip to a moldering cemetery to pay his damn respects to? To my mother? Dead or alive, he abandoned me.”
The next arrow flew, hitting the black circle in the middle dead center.
Rafe nodded, more to himself than to her. “I’ll take your anger. Give it to me.”
Her head swiveled to him. “What?”
“Unleash it on me. I was built for anger. It doesn’t bother me. I might as well have it lashed onto me.”
Her left arm holding the bow dropped to her side and she slowly turned toward him, her eyebrows pulled together. “You want me to unleash my anger onto you?”
He shrugged. “Why not? The arrows don’t seem to be working.”
“You couldn’t handle all the rage I have boiling in me.”
His right eyebrow cocked, a smirk playing at his lips. “Try me. I don’t think you have it in you, little one.”
One little nudge. That was all it took—one little comment—to send her over the edge. She dropped her bow and charged at him, her hands fisted. He dodged out of her grasp, moving quickly to the opening in the side wall of shrubbery.
She was right at his heels and he spun around to watch her as he ran backward into the thick grove of trees surrounding the practice ground. At his ease of escape, she screeched in frustration, trying to catch him.
He evaded her, dodging in and out of clusters of trees until he glanced over his shoulder to avoid smashing into the trunk of a large oak and she pounced, slamming into the front side of him, her fists swinging, beating his chest.
The momentum of her crashing into him sent him stumbling backward and his spine cracked into the heavy oak, but he kept his feet about him.
She swung her fists, hitting him over and over with growling shrieks—blows that should hurt, didn’t. Not because she was weak—she was surprisingly strong with her punches into the mass of his chest—but because he couldn’t concentrate on any discomfort.
He could only stare. Stare down at the fury on her face. At the wild tendrils of dark chestnut hair coming loose and falling about her face. At her lips gritting over her teeth.
