Page 266 of Rosetti Family New York
In my own skin.
Rafe watches me, watches the way I work, and I know he sees it too. The change in me. I don't flinch when the knife comes down. I don't hesitate.
He holds a glass of whiskey, cradling it in his palm. His presence is electric, a live wire that makes everything more real, more alive. It's the kind of intensity that makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the world.
I cut the carrot again, just to see his reaction. He looks at the bright orange discs, then back at me, and it makes my blood hum.
"Those are perfect," he says, and I can tell he means more than the carrots.
"Better be," I reply, teasing. "They took long enough."
My voice is light, but there's an edge to it. Lucas's confession is still in my mind, but it doesn't hurt like it used to. Knowing the truth means I'm finally free of it. Knowing what happened, why she died, and who was responsible. I finally have the answers.
And it feels incredible.
I'm ready to take risks. I'm ready to live my life without the shadows that haunted me for so long.
Bear. Maddy. The accusations and the secrets. The guilt I thought I'd never shake.
It's all in the past. It's all gone.
I set the knife down, look at Rafe. At his confidence, his certainty, his quiet intensity that makes my heart skip.
His eyes are like fire.
He leans in close, like he's about to claim what's his. Like he's about to take everything.
He doesn't know it yet, but I'm about to let him.
"Rafe," I whisper, but I don't finish the sentence. I don't have to.
Not when the rest of our lives are waiting.
33
Rafaele
Sloane sits on my lap, thighs bracketing my hips, a clean cloth in one hand and that wrinkle between her brows. My ribs sting like hell, but I don't flinch. Not with her this close. Her legs are bare. She’s wearing one of my shirts again. And I’m doing my best not to drag her mouth to mine and forget what we’re supposed to be doing.
We’re perched on the end of the bed. Moonlight spills through the wide windows, soaking us in silver. Everything else about the room is dark, the heavy lines of the furniture, the stark black-and-white photos on the walls, so she seems to glow in the night.
She leans in and studies the swollen bruise on my jaw, her voice soft.
“Looks nasty.”
I offer a dry smirk as she dabs at the cut with the antiseptic cloth.
“You should see the other guy.”
Her lips twitch in amusement.
“Let me guess. Someone said the wrong thing?”
I shift against the pillows.
“Entitled little shit at the gym. Thought throwing a few punches meant he could talk back to Matteo.”
Sloane rolls her eyes, but I catch the corner of her mouth lifting.
