Page 162 of Roulette Rodeo
~RED~
His eyes are wide, ice-gray turned liquid silver with tears that have nothing to do with the rain still dripping from his hair.
I've seen many men cry.
Watched millionaires become broke bastards in a heartbeat at the casino, sobbing over cards that betrayed them. Witnessed them beg for their lives and mercy in alleyways behind the Crimson Roulette before triggers were pulled and bodies disappeared. I've seen tears of rage, desperation, manipulation—every flavor of masculine emotion stripped of its protective shell.
But this is the first time I've seen hurt on a man's face that makes my own heart clench in pure agony.
Rafe, who wears control like armor, builds walls from ice and disappointment, and spent a month keeping me at arm's length—he's completely shattered. Standing here in Mrs. Chen's coffee shop, soaking wet and crying, looking like a man who just realized he's been attending his own funeral for two years.
I'd been listening.
Had seen the truck's headlights when Rafe arrived but decided to wait when I noticed the second car. That's howcautious I've become—always watching for the second threat, the backup plan, the angle you don't see coming until it's too late.
Years at the casino taught me that predators rarely hunt alone.
I'd stood near the window, hidden behind the display of local artists' work, and heard every word through the thin glass. Heard Luca's cruel taunts about kissing me—a lie so obvious it was insulting.Heard him twist the knife about Sophia with the precision of someone who knows exactly where the old wounds are. Heard him say those final words that broke something in Rafe:She doesn't love you. Sophia didn't either.
The coldness in Luca's voice had made me wonder if they were ever really best friends, or if that too had been some kind of long con. A game where only Rafe believed in the rules while Luca played by a different set entirely.
Now, watching tears fall from Rafe's eyes—real tears, not rain, the distinction obvious in the way they track different paths down his cheeks—I understand the weight he's been carrying.
The guilt of thinking he killed someone who loved him is crushing enough.
But the guilt of knowing she never loved him at all? That he destroyed his life, his pack, his oldest friendship over someone who was just going through the motions?
That's the kind of guilt that eats you alive from the inside out.
He tries to speak, his mouth opening and closing like he's drowning on dry land, but no words come.
What defense could there be against the truth when it's been carved into your bones for two years?
I don't think.
Actions speak louder than words…
Rising up on my tiptoes, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down into a hug. He's so much taller that I have to really stretch, but I manage it, pulling his head down to my shoulder like I'm trying to shield him from his own thoughts.
He's still at first, rigid like he doesn't understand what's happening. Like no one's hugged him—really embrace him, not those performative pack embraces—in so long he's forgotten how to respond.
Then slowly,incrementally, his arms come up around me.
Tentative at first, then tighter, then desperate, like I'm the only solid thing in a world that's suddenly gone liquid.
His face presses into my shoulder, and for a moment we just stand there, two people holding each other in a dark coffee shop while the storm rages outside. The silence stretches, filled only with the sound of rain and our breathing.
Then the first sob breaks free.
It's quiet, muffled against my shoulder like he's still trying to control it. But once that first one escapes, the dam breaks completely. The sobs rack through him, making his whole body shake with the force of grief finally being released. He cries like someone just died—and in his crushing world that has overwhelmed him, someone had.
Maybe the version of himself that believed in that relationship, in that perfect life with the perfect omega, is finally being laid to rest.
I wonder if it was raining like this the day Sophia died.
If he drove through a storm like this one to reach the hospital, the truck fighting through flooding streets while his world collapsed. If he stood in some sterile hallway, dripping rainwater on hospital linoleum, while a doctor explained that the woman who was supposed to be theirs had chosen death over continuing the facade.
The guilt of that—of knowing someone found death preferable to being with you—would destroy anyone.
