Page 26 of Rafi

I believe her. But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving.

I glance at the street where she disappeared, my eyes narrowing as if I can see through the dark. The neighborhood isn’t dangerous, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t like the idea of her walking alone, even for a block.

Minutes tick by, slow and heavy. The night is quiet, the only sounds the hum of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog. I can feel my patience fraying, the elastic thread between us pulling tighter, threatening to snap.

I shift my weight, restless, my fingers tapping against the handlebar of the bike. My mind keeps replaying the way she looked at me before she left—like she wanted to say something but didn’t. Like she wanted me to stop her.

There will come a time, I know, when she won’t leave. When I won’t let her.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath. Tayana Kamarov doesn’t just occupy my thoughts; she’s taken them over completely. She’s not just my obsession. She’s my air.

My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my thoughts. Her number flashes on the screen, and my heart kicks up, quick and insistent that she didn’t call from a blocked number.

I answer on the first ring. “You’re home,” I say, not bothering to disguise the satisfaction in my voice that she called.

“Yes, I’m home,” she replies, her tone exasperated but soft. “Safe and sound, just like I promised. You can leave now.”

I chuckle, the sound low and quiet. “Maybe.”

“Rafi,” she warns, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“Goodnight, Tayana,” I say, my voice softer now.

She hesitates, just long enough for me to notice. “Goodnight, Rafi.”

The call ends, but I don’t move right away. I sit there in the quiet, the thread between us slackening but never breaking. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Eventually, I start the bike, the engine rumbling beneath me. The sound echoes down the empty street as I pull away, the faintest trace of her lingering in the air around me.

16

TAYANA

This thing with Rafi Gatti—I don’t know what you’d call it, or what it’s supposed to be. I just know it feels like nothing I’ve ever had before. We spent hours on that lookout, watching the city below come alive for some and drift into sleep for others. The city stretched out endlessly before us, a tapestry of light and motion, but somehow, up there, none of it seemed to matter.

We talked about everything and nothing. Little moments from childhood that didn’t seem important until now, random thoughts about the stars, stupid jokes that made us laugh harder than they should have. And yet, there was an unspoken rule: no mention of our families, no digging into the lives we live when we’re not here, wrapped in this strange, fragile bubble. It was like we weren’t Tayana Kamarov and Rafi Gatti—we were just two strangers sharing a moment that neither of us wanted to end.

Now, as I ride behind him on his motorcycle, I feel that bubble shrinking, threatening to burst. The wind rushes past, cool and sharp against my face, but it doesn’t stop the warmth building inside me. My arms are wrapped tightly around hiswaist, my chest pressed firmly to his back, and I don’t even try to keep some distance. Instead, I lean into him, feeling the strength in his body, the solidness of him. The safety of him. The warmth.

His scent clings to me, something dark and smoky, with a hint of spice that makes me dizzy. It’s not just the leather of his jacket or the faint trace of his cologne—it’s him. It’s in my clothes now, in my hair, in the air between us, and it pulls at something deep and instinctive inside me.

I don’t know the last time I felt like this with a man. Maybe I never have. It’s not just attraction, though there’s plenty of that. It’s something heavier, something that scares me. Because this? This feels like surrender.

I tighten my grip on him, as if holding him closer will keep the world at bay a little longer. If I could, I’d stay here forever, folded against him, the roar of the engine drowning out every thought, every worry, every reminder of who I am and where I come from.

But reality is waiting, lurking just out of sight. The second this ride ends, the bubble will pop. My father will still be the man who controls everything I do. My uncle will still be the one who enforces it. The ghosts of my past will still chase me, no matter how fast Rafi’s bike can go.

I hate that this can’t last. But at the same time, I love that it’s happening at all.

We pull up a block from my house, just like I asked. He slows the bike to a stop, and I reluctantly let go of him, already missing the warmth of his body. The street is quiet, empty except for the faint glow of the streetlights.

The roar of his motorcycle fades as we slow to a stop a block away from the house. I slide off the seat, my legs shaky—not from the ride but from the pull of his presence. Rafi doesn’t say anything at first, just sits astride the bike, one hand resting lazilyon the handlebar, the other tugging off his helmet. The very sight of him steals the breath from my lungs.

“They’re really going to roast me for this,” I mutter, glancing toward the house where I know my father’s men are waiting, probably watching.

His dark eyes meet mine, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Then don’t go. Come home with me.”Oh my God, he’s serious.

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