Page 43 of Rafi

She blinks again, the tension in her body softening slightly as recognition dawns. “Rafi?”

I offer her a faint smile. “That’s what they call me.”

Her eyes flick down to the blanket draped over her, and I see the moment she registers the borrowed pajamas Allegra left for her. A hint of color rises in her cheeks, and she tugs the fabric closer around her collarbone. Either it’s too early in the morningfor her, or her brain must have somehow missed the memo that I’ve already seen her naked.

“I figured you’d be more comfortable if I got out of the bed before you woke,” I say, trying not to sound awkward.

“Oh my God,” Tayana murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep as the memories of her nightmare come rushing back to her. She smooths a hand over the blanket, her gaze dropping to her lap. “Did you spend the whole night here?”

I lean back in the chair, giving her space but not quite ready to leave. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

She hesitates, as if weighing her words. “It was just a nightmare,” she says finally. “I haven’t had one in years.”

Her eyes meet mine again, and this time there’s something else in her expression—something vulnerable, unguarded. It hits me harder than I expect, the realization that she trusts me enough to let her walls down, even just a little.

“Why do you think they’ve started again?” I ask softly.

She shrugs slowly, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket, a telltale sign that her thoughts are far from settled. I realize that Tayana Kamarov might try to act all tough and badass, but she’s as fragile as a wallflower.

“Tayana,” I say after a beat, my voice steady, “if you ever want to talk about it—about anything—I’m here. No judgment.”

She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see the war waging behind her eyes. She wants to say something, to share the weight she’s been carrying, but something stronger than that urge holds her back.

I don’t push her. I won’t. This is her battle to fight, her past to confront when she’s ready. All I can do is let her know she doesn’t have to do it alone.

As the silence stretches between us, my eyes are drawn to her face again. She’s beautiful, yes, but it’s not just that. There’s a quiet strength in her, a resilience that refuses to be snuffed outno matter how many times life tries. It makes me want to know every part of her, to peel back the layers and understand the woman behind the guarded smile and fierce determination.

“Why are you here?” she asks suddenly, her voice cutting through my thoughts.

I frown, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“In my room,” she clarifies, gesturing vaguely around her. “Why didn’t you just let me wake up on my own?”

I let out a soft laugh, leaning forward again, resting my elbows on my knees. “To be honest, I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d watch you instead.”

Her lips part, and for a moment, I think she might argue. But then she nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips like it’s unsure of its place.

“My mother used to do the same,” she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Any time I had a nightmare.”

The words hang in the air between us, delicate and trembling. My chest tightens. Her mother. She never mentions her. Not once since the moment we met. But the way her voice shifts—soft, almost reverent—it’s enough to tell me this woman is no small part of the burden Tayana carries.

“You never talk about her,” I say, keeping my tone light, careful not to scare her off.

She shakes her head slowly, her fingers picking at the edge of the blanket like she’s unravelling a memory, thread by painful thread. “It’s hard,” she says, and the way those two words fall from her lips is like a stone dropping into a well, echoing with the weight of things unsaid.

I sit back, giving her space to continue, but she doesn’t. She stares down at the blanket, her gaze far away, her breath uneven.

“What happened to her?” I ask, even though I know it’s a dangerous question.

She freezes, her breath catching, and I instantly regret it. Her head turns away, and I can see the tears she’s trying to hide.

She swallows hard, her shoulders trembling as though she’s holding back a flood of emotions. For a moment, I think she’s going to shut me out, to put those walls back up that she’s so good at hiding behind. But then she surprises me.

Her words are fragile, pieced together like shards of broken glass, but they cut deep. I can see it in her eyes—the way she’s been carrying this memory, clutching it close like a talisman against the dark.

“She’s gone,” she cuts in, her voice trembling.

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. There’s so much anger, so much pain wrapped up in them that it’s impossible not to feel it, too.

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