5

(Amara’s POV)

The key sat heavy in my palm.

I could still hear Rafael’s voice — rough, honest — promising me freedom if I chose it.

No cages.

No chains.

No demands.

And yet…

I stayed.

Maybe it was foolish.

Maybe it was weak.

But when the world outside had shown me nothing but cruelty, Rafael’s broken kindness — even guarded, even rough-edged — was enough to make me pause.

I slipped the key into my pocket and retreated to the guest room he’d given me.

The walls were soft cream, the bedspread a muted blue — colors that made my chest ache with the memory of childhood hopes I’d long since buried.

I curled up under the covers, waiting for the storm to break.

It didn’t take long.

Somewhere deep in the house, a sharp noise cracked — a sound like wood splintering.

I sat bolt upright, heart hammering.

Voices rose — sharp, commanding.

Footsteps thundered down the hall.

I scrambled out of bed just as the door burst open — but it was Dominic, Rafael’s second-in-command, his face carved in stone.

“Stay down,” he barked.

Before I could respond, he tossed something at me — a hoodie, dark and oversized.

“Put this on. If anyone gets in here, hide under the bed. Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

I obeyed without thinking, my hands shaking as I pulled the hoodie over my head.

Dominic hesitated for one second at the door — then, softer: “He’s risking a lot for you, girl. Don’t make it for nothing.”

And then he was gone.

(Rafael’s POV)

Blood on the marble floor.

Two intruders down.

Not enough.

I shoved my pistol back into the holster at my side, ignoring the dull burn in my shoulder where a bullet had grazed me.

“Clear the south wing!” I barked.

Dominic appeared, panting.

“Main threat’s down. Two more outside. Minor injuries.”

“And the girl?”

“Safe. Shaken, but safe.”

I nodded once, cold relief unfurling inside me.

The Blakes had moved faster than I expected — sending hired muscle straight to my doorstep.

Amateurs. Sloppy.

They wanted her back that badly.

Or maybe they just wanted to make sure she couldn’t talk.

Either way, they had underestimated what I was willing to do to keep her here.

(Amara’s POV)

Hours later — or maybe minutes; time was blurry — there was a knock at the door.

Soft. Careful.

“Amara? It’s me,” Rafael said.

I opened the door a crack.

He stood there, blood smeared across his knuckles, a shallow cut above his brow — but his expression was strangely gentle.

“You’re safe,” he said.

And for the first time in years, I believed it.

Tears pricked my eyes.

“I stayed,” I whispered.

A muscle jumped in his jaw — like my words hurt him somehow.

“You didn’t have to,” he said hoarsely. “You still don’t.”

I swallowed hard. “I wanted to.”

He closed his eyes for a moment — just a flicker — and when he opened them again, there was something raw in his gaze that scared me more than the blood.

Something almost like hope.

Without another word, he pressed something into my hand — a phone.

“If you want to call someone… anyone… I’ll give you privacy,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

The idea of calling anyone — my parents, my so-called friends — felt sickening.

I tightened my grip around the phone.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to.”

A slow breath escaped him — and somehow, that tiny rejection of my old life felt bigger than any escape plan.

I had chosen to stay.

Not because I was trapped.

But because, for the first time… I wanted to fight for something.

Maybe for myself.

Maybe for him.

Maybe for both of us.

It wasn’t until later — when the house settled into uneasy silence — that I ventured out of my room.

The kitchen lights were on, casting a warm glow down the hallway. The smell of something buttery and sweet drifted through the air, pulling me forward without thinking.

Mrs. Holloway stood at the counter, stirring a pot with practiced hands.

She looked up when she saw me, her lined face softening into a smile.

“There you are, sweetheart,” she said warmly, like I belonged there.

It unraveled something tight in my chest.

“I—I can help,” I blurted, though I wasn’t sure what I could possibly do.

She chuckled — a low, kind sound.

“You sit. You’ve had a day and a half, haven’t you?”

I hesitated.

In my old house, sitting without permission would’ve earned a slap.

But Mrs. Holloway only patted a chair and turned back to her cooking, giving me the freedom to choose.

I sat.

Wordlessly, she ladled steaming soup into a bowl and placed it in front of me, along with a thick slice of bread.

“Eat, darling,” she said. “You’re safe here.”

Something hot prickled at the back of my eyes.

Safe.

No one had ever said that word to me like it was a promise before.

I picked up the spoon with shaking fingers.

Mrs. Holloway settled across from me, pretending not to watch too closely.

“You know,” she said after a minute, keeping her voice casual, “Mr. Moretti isn’t as scary as he looks.”

I almost choked on my soup.

She smiled — an impish, knowing smile that made me wonder how long she’d been in Rafael’s life.

“You have to know people like him differently,” she said. “He’s hard on the outside, but… his heart’s still in there. Just bruised a little.”

Like mine, I thought.

Like mine.

“You’re not afraid of him?” I whispered.

Mrs. Holloway’s eyes twinkled.

“I’ve known Rafael since he was barely taller than this table,” she said. 

There was weight behind those words, but she didn’t press.

She didn’t need to.

She knew pain when she saw it.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel alone sitting across from an adult.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice cracking. “For… everything.”

She reached across the table and gently squeezed my hand.

“You don’t have to thank me, darling. Just take your time. Heal.”

No demands.

No expectations.

Just kindness, freely given.

I ate the soup with tears slipping silently down my cheeks, and Mrs. Holloway never once looked away.

Rafael’s POV)

From the shadows just outside the kitchen doorway, Rafael watched — unseen.

He caught the way Amara’s hands trembled as she lifted her spoon.

He saw how Mrs. Holloway, the only mother he’d ever really known, offered Amara the kind of safety she herself had once given him.

And it shook something loose inside him.

Something old.

Something aching.

He didn’t deserve this peace.

But maybe Amara did.

And maybe… if he was careful… he could find a way to give it to her.

Without destroying her in the process.