Page 22 of The Counterfeit Lover

I'm hyperventilating from an overload of sensations, of skin on top of skin, sweaty bodies,bloodybodies. But there's more. Beneath it all, there's sweet, sweet love.

And guilt.

So much fucking guilt.

My eyes snap open.

In one second, I see my entire life to that point.

I see my young self, with dreams and hopes.

I see those hopes dashed, the entirety of my soul crushed.

But there's one hope.

Throughout it all, there's one hope keeping me alive.

Him.

Always him.

Even when I didn't know it. It was always him.

My sweet, sweet love. My dangerous love.

A door swings open, Raf sauntering in, his eyes wide, his entire body stiff. His gaze swings between Lucero and I, a harsh look crossing his face as he takes another step inside the room.

Raf…

His name is a whisper on my lips.

I could speak out. I could tell him everything. But I won't.

It wouldn't matter anymore, would it?

No, I want him to love me for me—for the me now before he even attempts to love me for the me in the past. I want him to look at me and see hiswife.

And he does.

He looks at me and my heart bursts in my chest at the sadness I read in his eyes. The weariness. The guilt. The torture.

His soul is crying. It's there for me to see and feel.

Because my soul is crying too. It's weeping tears of blood at everything that happened; at everything I see in his gaze that is echoed in my own.

Anguish clings to him like a second skin.

I don't think anyone else can recognize the turmoil in him more than I do. I've become so proficient at reading him that every single expression is worth more than a thousand words. And in that moment, I realize things I couldn't when the veil of despair had clouded my senses. I see the love that was always there—and the pain at my rejection. I see everything he's feeling.

More than anything, I see the indecision.

And regardless of the love, that uncertain struggle that paints his features cuts me deep on the inside. So deep, I know I'm on the verge of doing something bad.

Something really, really bad.

The clock is ticking.

The fifteen minutes Michele had told us we have left are slowly trickling by.

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