Page 187 of Roulette Rodeo
The heat under my skin makes the decision for me. I need air, movement, something other than tossing and turning in sheets that feel like they're made of sandpaper.
"Alright," I tell Duke, grabbing one of Shiloh's hoodies from the hook by the door—it hangs to mid-thigh on me, practically a dress. "But if this is some elaborate plan to chase rabbits, you're on your own."
The night air hits my overheated skin like a blessing, cool and crisp with that particular autumn smell of dying leaves and distant frost. Duke takes off immediately, not quite running but moving with purpose across the yard. I follow, bare feet sinking into dew-wet grass that should feel cold but instead feels perfect against my burning soles.
The moon is nearly full, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. Duke leads me past the main garage, past the storage sheds, toward the barn that Rafe barely acknowledges exists most days. The one I just won a renovation for, the one that made him blush like I'd seen straight through to his soul.
Light seeps through the cracks in the barn doors, warm and golden against the night.
Duke scratches at the door, whining softly, and I hear movement inside. The door creaks open slightly, and Rafe's voice drifts out.
"What are you doing out here, hmm?" His tone is soft, affectionate in a way I rarely hear. "Making sure everything's safe? Or just making the whole ranch smell like Red?"
My breath catches. He can smell me on Duke?
I hear him shift inside, and Duke—the traitor—trots through the door like he owns the place. I creep closer, peering through the gap, and what I see makes my heart clench.
Rafe's sitting on the floor near what looks like a makeshift shrine. There are photos I can't quite make out, some dried flowers that have seen better days, a few books stacked carefully. A bottle of perfume that probably hasn't been touched in years. All arranged on an old wooden crate like an altar to grief.
He's wearing sleep pants and nothing else, his usually perfect hair mussed from bed or maybe from running his hands through it. In the lantern light, he looks younger, vulnerable in a way that daylight and expensive suits never allow.
Duke pads over to him, and Rafe absently pets him while staring at the shrine. The silence stretches, heavy with the weight of memories I'm not part of, grief I can only imagine.
Then Duke barks—loud, happy, sudden—and bounces back from Rafe's reach.
"What's gotten into you?" Rafe asks, frowning as Duke runs in a circle, tail wagging frantically.
Duke barks again and charges directly at where I'm hidden, hitting me with enough force to knock me off balance. The "oof" that escapes me is entirely involuntary, but it's enough.
Rafe's head snaps toward the door, one eyebrow arching in that way that usually means someone's in trouble. His gaze finds mine through the gap, and something flickers across his face—surprise, embarrassment, maybe relief?
"So you're guilty with an accomplice," he tells Duke, who barks happily and literally runs away, disappearing into the night like he's completed his mission.
"Smart dog," I mutter, then louder, "Can I join you?"
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing it—the vulnerability of being caught in this private moment against the loneliness of carrying it alone. Finally, slowly, he nods.
I slip through the door, closing it softly behind me. The barn smells like old hay and motor oil, dust and something floral that must be from the perfume.
I settle beside him on a stack of hay bales, careful to leave space between us, not wanting to intrude more than I already have.
The silence wraps around us, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet that exists between people who understand that sometimes words would only cheapen what needs to be felt.
I look at the shrine without really seeing it, understanding without being told that this is for Sophia. The photos are carefulangles where I can't see faces clearly, like even in death he's protecting her privacy or maybe protecting himself from the full weight of her image.
Minutes pass. Maybe ten, maybe twenty. Time moves differently at three in the morning, especially in spaces haunted by ghosts.
Finally, Rafe speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.
"When she died, they never let me see the body."
The words hang in the air like a confession, and I turn slightly to look at him. His eyes are fixed on the shrine, jaw working like he's fighting to get the words out.
"We didn't have the right," he continues, voice bitter. "We weren't her 'official' pack on paper. Never finalized the bonds, never filed the paperwork. So according to the law, we didn't have the right to see her, to say goodbye, to even properly mourn her."
My chest tightens at the pain in his voice, the way his hands clench and unclench in his lap.
"Luca had more money than me back then," he says, laughing but there's no humor in it, just broken glass and regret. "He finessed his way into seeing her. Bribed someone, called in favors, I don't know. But he got to see her, and then he bragged about it. Told me how peaceful she looked, how beautiful even in death. Like he was the one who loved her most, who deserved that final moment."
