Chapter sixty one
Alora POV
"Why did Luka ask me to choose new colours?"
“Because I asked him to,” he answered and turned away.
He didn’t walk away because he was done. He did because he knew unanswered questions hurt more than answers.
Seeing as he wasn’t going to say anything further, I turned to leave.
I had a thousand questions clawing at my throat, all of them swallowed by the distance he insisted on keeping.
I hadn’t expected him to train me to use a gun, but with Rafe, nothing was ever simply what it seemed.
I got to the kitchen and Maria was dishing out food.
“How are you doing, my dear?”
“Fine. Rafe told me you’re on your winter break.”
What? How did he know when we hadn’t even talked about it? Definitely from Macko. Or he just had his own sources.
“Yeah. A break is… good,” I replied flatly, the word tasting far less comforting than it should have.
I waited for her to plate more, but only one plate had been served before she covered the pot.
“Why is there only one plate?” I asked, already bracing myself for the answer.
“Rafe said he’s not coming to dinner, so it’s only you,” she smiled.
“But we were just talking outside. How…?”
“He texted before you came in.”
I opened and closed my mouth, irritation tightening in my chest. Why wouldn’t he join me?
“Will you sit in the dining room? Here is fine?”
I grabbed a stool and sat down. “Have you eaten?”
“No, I was going to wait for Nora.”
“Could you kindly join me?”
She nodded and dished out her own food, then sat on another stool across from me.
“So, how are things between you two?” she asked.
I paused from eating, the spoon hovering midair as I took a slow breath.
“I guess… still bad.”
“Maybe worse.”
I nodded, taking the glass of water in front of me and gulping it down at once.
“I was hoping the situation would get easier, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” I admitted.
Maybe I’d made the wrong assumption earlier, and now the distance had only stretched further between us.
“Everything will be just fine. Come on, eat your food before it gets cold.”
We ate in silence, the kind that pressed in on my ribs, daring one of us to breathe too loudly.
“Do you know anyone called Tori?” I asked casually.
The hesitation was immediate, sharp enough to tell me I’d just stepped on something buried and dangerous.
She raised her brows slightly, lifted the juice in front of her, and took a sip.
“Where did you hear that name from?”
“Rafe was calling her in his sleep four days ago,” I explained.
“Who was she to him?”
“I don’t think I should say anything. Rafe should be the one to open up to you about his past.”
“I understand, but he refuses to tell me. Please, just a hint, maybe?”
She sighed deeply, looking at me as if I were asking her to betray him.
“Don’t you want us to be on good terms again?” I pressed, desperation slipping into my voice before I could stop it.
“Of course I do, but that’s blackmail.”
“Please,” I pleaded, squinting my eyes.
“Her name is Victoria, his ex-fiancée. It ended tragically around four years ago.”
Four years and the ghost of her still had a voice.
“What happened?”
“She had an abortion to spite him, made it public. It destroyed him because he deeply loved her.”
“What? Why isn’t it online?” I asked, because I’d searched for his past and found nothing.
“Rafe had it all erased. I think I’ve said too much already.”
Her hands trembled just slightly as she stood, like the truth had burned her on the way out.
“Thank you, Maria. You’re the best,” I beamed, holding her hands.
“You’re welcome, my dear. Just try to understand him sometimes. This loss reminds him of what he went through.”
“I didn’t want it to happen either,” I whispered, my voice barely holding steady.
And maybe that was the cruelest part, that my pain had pressed on an old wound I didn’t know how to bandage.
“I know. Try fixing things with him. He needs you,” she smiled, standing up.
“I will,” I assured her.
“I have to go now. See you tomorrow, and have a lovely night.”
“You too.”
She put her plate in the sink, took a food box, probably for Nora, and walked off.
She was too kind, always trying to fix things before they had the chance to break completely. I wished I were more like her.
I ate in the quiet comfort of the kitchen, my thoughts circling back to Rafe no matter where I tried to steer them.
If he’d been ordinary, we would’ve passed each other without damage and maybe that was the problem.
This had started as a forced union, and somewhere along the way, real feelings had tangled themselves into the mess.
I cleared my plate, washed it, and hung it back on the rack. Then I took another plate and dished out food for Rafe.
I walked upstairs carefully holding the tray.
I knocked, no response, just the steady ticking of the clock answering me instead.
I stepped inside. Rafe was sitting on the couch, focused on his laptop.
I set the tray in front of him, but he didn’t look up.
“Here’s your dinner,” I said.
“I told Maria not to serve me,” he replied.
“She didn’t. I did.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said, already shutting me out.
“It’s getting late. You should go to bed.”
I rolled my eyes, folding my hands together.
He was being impossible, deliberately so, and that somehow made it worse.
Macko’s words echoed in my head. You can’t go to war looking like a homeless hobo.
Well, it wasn’t a war, but Rafe was treating it like one.
If he insisted on treating this like a battle, then I would stop pretending I didn’t know where his defenses were weakest.
I went to the closet and pulled out my nightie, the short one. The one I hadn’t worn since things between us had gone sour. It felt like dusting off an old habit, something dangerous but familiar.
The shower was quick and hot. I stayed under the water longer than necessary, letting it loosen the tight coil in my chest, letting the steam steady my breathing. By the time I turned the tap off, my pulse had slowed, but my resolve hadn’t.
I wrapped the towel around myself and stepped back into the room.
Rafe didn’t look up at first. His attention was still glued to the laptop, jaw tense, shoulders rigid, every inch of him broadcasting restraint.
I sat at the vanity anyway.
I took my time opening the oil, drizzling it onto my palm. The scent filled the air, warm, familiar. I lifted my leg and began smoothing the oil into my skin slowly, deliberately, following the curve of my calf, my knee, higher.
I didn’t look at him.
I didn’t need to.
I felt it the moment his focus fractured, the hitch in his breathing, the subtle shift of weight like he was bracing himself. He didn’t turn his head, but the space between us changed. Charged and tight.
The towel slipped as I stood, falling to the floor without urgency. I let it stay there.
I stepped into the nightie, tugged it down, then turned just enough to catch him looking.
Only for a second, long enough to betray him.
I crossed the room, picked up the tray, and turned toward the door.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
His voice was lower now. Rougher, strained.
“Taking this downstairs,” I said calmly. “Since you won’t eat.”
“Dressed like that?”
I glanced down at myself, then back at him.
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
He stayed mute and I made my way to the door. Just then his voice made me halt.
“If you walk out that door,” he said quietly, “you’re choosing consequences.”
I paused for a second then clicked the door open.
In a heartbeat the laptop snapped shut.