Page 58 of Fired at the Heart

Joy surges through me, wild and irrational. At last, he came for me. He choseme.

Then reality crashes back in. The bond is gone. I felt it break. This can’t be Raphael. This must be a hallucination, a cruel trick of bond withdrawal and whiskey and desperate longing.

The figure reaches out, and warm, solid,realfingers brush my hair back from my forehead. The touch sends electricity through me, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alive.

“Oh, baby,” Raphael says with aching tenderness. “Look what you’ve done to yourself.”

I blink, trying to clear my vision. It can’t be him. It can’t be. And yet the hazel eyes staring down at me shift from amber to green in the harsh light like they always have.

“You’re not real,” I manage to say, my tongue thick in my mouth.

He traces my cheekbone, my jaw, then the curve of my neck where the Mark used to be. His touch lingers, and his concern darkens, becoming dangerous. “Did you really think it would be that easy to leave me?”

The world tilts again, but not from alcohol this time. From fear. From the impossible reality of Raphael being here, in my safe house that no one should know about, touching me with hands too real to deny.

“How—” I begin, but my voice fails me.

Raphael’s lips curve into that chilling smile I first fell in love with. “You of all people should know I don’t let anyone steal what’s mine. Not even you.”

The last thing I see before unconsciousness claims me is Raphael’s beautiful face as he picks me up off the floor.

18

Isurface from darkness to the press of a damp cloth on my forehead.

My thoughts are fuzzy, disconnected fragments refusing to form coherent patterns. My body feels both heavy and hollow, my insides scraped out and filled with lead. I try to lift my head, but even that small effort is impossible.

The coolness moves from my forehead to my cheek, then down to my neck, and a scent cuts through the fog, musky and familiar. A scent like home.

I peel my eyelids open, blinking against the harsh overhead light. A figure hovers above me, features blurring then sharpening into familiar contours. Golden-brown waves falling across a broad forehead, hazel eyes intent with concentration, an angular jaw tightened with concern.

“Raphael?” I croak, my throat raspy.

His features soften, tension melting into relief. He presses the washcloth to my temple again, wiping away sweat. “How do you feel, baby?”

I struggle to piece together his presence, the strange ceiling overhead, and the deep ache in my bones. “What’s...” I swallow, my throat dry as sandpaper. “What’s going on?”

Raphael sets the cloth aside and reaches for something out of my field of vision. “You’ve been sick for the last three days.”

The words are gentle, a tone I haven’t heard from him in years, and it confuses me.

“Here.” He returns with a glass of water, his free hand sliding beneath my head to lift it. “Small sips.”

The cool water eases the burn of my parched throat, and I drink until he pulls the glass away.

“Easy.” He sets the glass back on the nightstand. “Too much at once, and you’ll make yourself sick again.”

I try to push myself up, to gain a measure of control over the situation, but a sharp tug on my hands stops me. Metal bites into my skin, and a clinking sound follows my movement.

When I look up, I discover handcuffs encircle my wrists, a long chain looping through a rung on the headboard.

And I’m naked. Completely, utterly naked.

My heart kicks into high gear as fragments of memory click into place. The job I took for the Rockfords. Raphael fighting again by my side. Watching the life fade from him.

The burning pain and emptiness.

Raphael’s features harden. “You remember what you did now?”

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