Page 265 of Rosetti Family New York
"I do," I say. "I have to. And I will."
I stare at him, feeling my heart catch fire. Feeling everything catch fire. His eyes are so intense, so alive, I can't look away. I reach out and take the brush from his hands.
"Don't know if I can give you anything back," I say, feeling the words stick in my throat.
"Don't need you to," he replies.
He steps back, but I feel his presence like a flame, like warmth.
"Once the story's out there," I say, "then it's done."
The wind bites at my cheeks, but it feels good. It feels real.
I dip the brush into the bucket, scrubbing away the last bit of red.
The gray stone looks new again, untouched, unmarked.
"Yeah," Rafe says, reaching out for my hand.
I take it, letting him pull me into the warmth of his arms. The world disappears, and it's just the two of us, just this moment, just this hope that I thought I'd never have.
He holds me there, and I know what it's like to be found. To be alive.
We stand like that, silent and breathing, until I finally pull back. Until I'm ready to be whole again.
"You think they'll print it?" I ask, clutching the envelope. "Lucas's confession?"
"I'll make sure of it," he says.
His confidence makes me giddy, and I laugh, an unexpected sound that cuts through the cold.
"You're ready, Sloane," Rafe says, holding my gaze. Holding me steady.
I believe him. For the first time, I believe it's true.
I take a breath, let it fill me up. It feels good, it feels free.
"Let's get out of here," I say, and I don't let go of his hand.
The blade is cold and unforgiving, and the sharp edge glints in the kitchen's dim light as I slice through another carrot, sending a bright orange disc skittering across the marble countertop. Precise, I think, and my heart beats faster.
I haven't dared use a knife this sharp since Bear died, never trusted my own hands to be steady enough. The words always echoed in my head. What if it happens again, what if you can't control it, what if someone gets hurt, what if, what if, what if. But today, the only sound is steel on wood.
It's a crisp, clean sound. Each slice lands with a little thunk. I glance at my hands, amazed. They're strong. Steady. Not the hands of a guilty girl who lets people down, who gets people hurt. Not the hands of someone who carries ghosts everywhere she goes. The thought makes me giddy, and I look up.
Rafe is there, a dark and quiet presence beside me. He leans against the counter, eyes on my hands. Eyes on my work. Watching each slice with a kind of reverence that makes me laugh under my breath.
"Careful, Rosetti," I say, raising an eyebrow. "You'll make me think you care."
He doesn't blink.
"You know I do," he says, the words warm and steady, like the rest of him.
His gaze moves from the knife to my face, and my heart flutters in my chest, a bird in flight.
I pick up a piece of carrot, popping it in my mouth. It's fresh and crunchy and real, and I chew it like I've never tasted anything better. The whole kitchen is warm and familiar, and I finally feel at home in it.
In my own life.
