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Amoonbeampermeatesaporthole, projecting the shadows of the storm onto the back wall. I’ve been staring at it for hours. Awake. Alert. Wondering if Rafe is coming back, or if I’m going to spend a second night hugging his cold pillow.
He said it was a meeting. The period between Christmas and New Year’s Eve is always a smudge on the calendar, I know. Buttwo days.What meetings last for two days?
My cell hasn’t buzzed once with a shit joke, or even a curt, one-word command. Instead, it’s burned a silent hole in my pocket as I’ve wandered aimlessly from room to room, taunting me with the idea of texting him.
My pride won’t let me.
My sigh melting into the thrum of rain, I kick the covers off my clammy body and prop myself up on my elbows. I’m hot and restless, and as pathetic as it is, I know only the soft lull of Rafe’s voice in my ear and the hard comfort of his body against mine, will soothe me.
I drop back on the pillow. Traps are the worst fucking thing.
I lie like this for a while, contemplating what to do. I’m down to my lastFor Dummiesbook, and I’ve called the Sinners Anonymous hotline so many times that my head is devoid of mundane topics. Just as I’m considering doing another lap of the yacht to burn some of this nervous energy, a low hum in the distance makes all the hairs on my arms stand to attention. My eyes slide up to the row of portholes lining the wall and the yellow glow from the boat lights that slowly washes over them.
Relief eases the pressure in my chest. Sliding under the covers, I close my eyes and strain my ears, listening to the movement shift around the yacht.
The engine shuts off. The swim deck groans. Only when the French doors open and slam shut so violently that the headboard shakes against my crown, does a sheet of unease slide over me.
It grows heavier with every irregular footstep that crawls across the ceiling. Almost suffocates me when the sound travels down the stairs and closes in on the cabin door. When the door clicks open and the smell of rain and animosity spills into the room, I squeeze my eyes shut and stop breathing.
Something’s not right; I can sense it. There’s a venom in the air, and Rafe’s breathing too loud. My arms tingle with awareness as he navigates the bed and sits in the armchair by my head.
Danger screams, but the silence is louder. Letting out the slowest, quietest breath I can, I dare myself to crack an eyelid—not wide enough for him to realize I’m awake, but enough to assess him.
His eyes are on me, his elbows propped up on the chair arms. He spins a poker chip between his thumb and forefinger, each turn glinting gold in the moonlight. He’s a rumpled version of himself: his hair is mussed, his shirt soaked, and the shadows even make him appear unshaven.
Even if I were wide awake and we were in the cold light of day, I wouldn’t be able to read his expression. His attention is unfocused, somewhere else. Somewhere bad luck thrives and heavy decisions have to be made.
I squeeze my eyes shut again.
A few seconds later, the chair groans and deliberate footsteps lead to the bathroom. The pipes gurgle and pop in the walls as he turns the shower on. Water pitter-patters against tiles and steam creeps under the door. The very normal act of him coming in and having a shower almost lulls me into a false sense of security, until a loudcracksnaps through the room and bolts me upright.
What the fuck?
Heart pounding, I glare at the bathroom door. “Rafe?”
No answer.
On shaky legs, I slip out of the bed, cross the room, and knock. When there’s still no answer, I brace my bones and gingerly push the door open.
Fear chokes me, but nowhere near as much as not knowing what’s on the other side of it.
Behind the steamed-up glass, Rafe’s got his bare back to me. One hand is braced on the wall, his head dipped between his shoulder blades, while water droplets capture the moonlight, glistening like metal as they glide over his tattoos and swirl down the drain.
“Rafe?” His inked shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn to look at me. “Are you okay?”
Silence and mist cloak me; I suck it in through my nostrils and almost gag on it.
Unable to take the tension, I yank open the shower door. Duck under his arm and slide in between him and the wall. His eyes are as icy as the water soaking through my T-shirt as he lifts them from the drain to me.
“Your socks didn’t work.”
What?Stupidly enough, I glance down at his feet, as if I’m going to find those ugly green socks growing damp. But what I see makes my throat dry. Blood, and lots of it, swirling with the water and disappearing down the drain. I follow the trail up his thigh, over his navel, and to the right of his stomach.
“You’re bleeding,” I whisper, reaching out to touch the bloody bandage. Realizing it’ll hurt, I curl my hand into a ball and press my back against the tiles. One scrapes roughly between my shoulder blades. A glance at his knuckles, also bloody, and I connect the dots; thecrackwas him punching the shower wall.
“What happened?”
His gaze is lazy and irritated. Blacker than the dark side of the moon. “You happened, Penelope.”
