Page 131 of Beat of Love
He shook off her hand and folded his arms, his expression turning mulish. “I killed the boy’s father,” he said, staring straight ahead.
She blinked. Twice. “You …killedhis father?”
“Yeah.”
“I … I think I need more context.”
“The kid’s father is Miguel Oliviera.”
Her breath caught.Oh, Lord.“The man from … Brazil?”
“Yes, Brandy-Lyn. The man from Brazil,” he sneered. “The man who killed my wife. The man I hunted for over a year and beat to death with my bare hands — he’s the father of that boy.”
He surged to his feet, stomped to the edge of the veranda, and spun to face her. A harsh, derisive laugh burst from him as he flung his arms wide. “What’s he going to think of me when he finds out? That I killed his father? Fuck, Red, I can’t survive another child running away from me with fear in his eyes.”
Her heart bled for him.
“There’s more.”
“More?” Lowering her legs to the ground, she stopped the swing and rose. “Tell me,” she whispered. This close, she saw it in his eyes — something raw and unguarded.
Grief.
That such a brave man — a warrior in her eyes — grieved so deeply, hurt her. She longed to pull him close, to hold him and promise she'd keep all his demons at bay.
But some wounds needed to be faced, not buried.
And Rafferty Lawson had been drowning in his for far too long.
“You’re safe here, sugar,” she said gently. “It’s okay to let go. Whatever’s eating you alive — let it out.”
For a long, taut moment, he held her gaze.
Come on, Raff. Be the brave man I know you are.
But he closed his eyes.
Shutting her out.
Hiding again.
Dammit. She swallowed back her disappointment.
And then he spoke. “I’ve killed without remorse. Oliveira wasn’t my first kill.” His voice was flat. Expressionless. The tone she hated. “And, Red, I won’t hesitate to kill again if I have to.”
“Raff …” A tortured groan tore from deep inside her. When she tried to move her hand, he caught it, holding tight.
His other hand landed on her hip, anchoring her in place, capturing her gaze with his. “I can’t be a father to that boy. And it’s not just because of who his father was.” His voice dropped lower. Rougher. “It’s because of what’s inside me. The darkness. The rot. My heart’s not red and healthy — it’s black. Diseased.” His grip tightened. “And I’ll just fuck that poor kid up.”
Brandy pulled her hand from his.
For one fleeting second, regret crossed his face.
Then it vanished, replaced by that practiced indifference.
“You’re disgusted with me too,” he said quietly, letting go of her hip.
“Never.”
