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“Take a seat,” he gestures over to the small table on the other side of the kitchen island that’s been set for two, and I still in shock. I move to do as he requests, skimming my fingers over the solid oak worktop and taking in the dark wood cabinets that surround the room.
I try to stop the smile from creeping onto my face as I take a seat and notice the single red rose that I picked for him earlier, sitting on display in a crystal vase in the center of the table.
I sit back and watch Rafe cook. Strangely, he doesn’t look as out of place as I thought he would as he moves around the kitchen. He almost looks as if he’s enjoying himself.
A few minutes later, he comes toward me carrying two plates, placing one in front of me before taking the seat opposite.
I stare across at him in confusion.
“You don’t like risotto?” He pouts, picking up his fork and looking at me as if all this is perfectly normal, and after realizing how long I’ve been staring at him, I quickly shake myself out of my trance.
“I’ve never eaten risotto before. It looks good, though,” I admit, picking up my own fork and starting to eat.
Rafe pours us both a glass of wine while I swallow down all the questions that are burning my tongue and enjoy the delicious food on my plate.
“I want to know more about you.” Rafe narrows his eyes as if he’s uncomfortable with that fact.
“What do you wanna know?” I shrug, taking a sip of the wine and staring at him over the rim of my glass. Why does he have to be so handsome? All of this would be so much simpler if he didn’t have the jawline of a Greek god and the body of a saint.
“I want to know how you ended up living on the streets.” His comment throws me off. Sure, I knew Rafe must have done some digging into my past to know my brother’s name, but it seems he delved a little deeper than just my family tree.
“You seem to know enough about me to figure that out yourself.” I avoid the question. This is a nice setup, but it’s not going to make me forget what kind of man Rafe is. He’s sure to use whatever I tell him as a weapon against me somewhere down the line.
“I could demand you tell me,” he warns, and although at this moment he doesn’t look very threatening, I’ve already figured that the man in front of me doesn’t make empty threats.
“Fine. Me and my brother went into the system after our mom died. We were lucky enough to stay together, but we got placed in some pretty sketchy foster homes,” I explain, taking another sip of wine. Rafe is watching me so intently it seems he’s genuinely interested.
“Liam figured he could take better care of me himself, so we ran, and we kept on running.” I make it sound so simple when in reality, it was hell. We were constantly looking over our shoulders and waiting for the authorities to find us and drag us back, sleeping in a tent through the winter and struggling to make a fire with frozen hands.
“And did he… take care of you?” Rafe asks. There’s a hint of concern in his tone and a crease in his forehead that I’ve never seen there before.
“Well, I’m alive, and I still have my chastity, so yeah, I guess he did,” I answer back sarcastically.
“He allowed you to be taken by Adriano’s men,” Rafe points out matter-of-factly, noticing my glass is empty and topping it up again.
“He wasn’t there when I was taken. It wouldn’t have happened if he was,” I snap back. I won’t have him suggest that Liam is to blame for the situation I’m in.
Rafe nods back slowly, seeming to accept my answer before continuing to eat his dinner. And I see an opportunity, so I take it.
“Why were you there that day? What link do you have to that place?” I ask, despite fearing the answer.
Rafe looks at me cautiously, and I wonder for a moment if he’s going to ignore my question completely.
“I’m assuming you want an honest answer to that question.” He places down his fork, picks up his glass, and rests back in his chair.
“Always.” I nod.
“Adriano, the man who was keeping you. He is my brother.” His voice comes out bitter, and I feel my eyes stretch wide with shock.
How have I not put that together before? The men may look different, but they both have the same skin tone and the same accent. I can even vaguely recall the vile man calling Rafe brother inside my cell. I just assumed he called people that, like the people on the street did.
“He hurts children.” It’s my turn to point out facts now. How can Rafe sit here and be okay with what his brother does?
“I don’t condone that, and if I could stop him, I would.” His top lip curls into a snarl.
“I find that hard to believe.” My mouth runs before my head can filter.
“That’s not up for discussion.” Rafe moves to pick up our empty plates and takes them away from the table.
