Got away this time

Dahlia

The ice in Rafe’s glass gave a small, sharp clink as he took a slow step forward. The moonlight caught the sharp angle of his cheekbone, right where the skin was still faint red from where I’d slapped him on the terrace. He looked entirely at ease, like casually observing a stray cat that had wandered into his trap.

I didn't move an inch. My back pressed hard against the sharp edge of the mahogany desk, the glossy print of my twenty-one-year-old self pressed tight against my hip behind my back.

"You're trespassing, Dahlia," he murmured, his voice smooth, warm, almost gentle—like a friend offering a soft reprimand, if not for the lethal stillness in his eyes. "And here I thought a brilliant investigator like you knew how to read a room."

"I read rooms just fine," I said, keeping my chin up, forcing my tone into a mix of cold detachment and casual deflection. "I just don't do well with ghost stories. Your grandmother looked like she wanted to exorcise me, Rafe. I came to see if you had a file explaining why."

Rafe swirled his bourbon, watching the amber liquid coat the glass. "And did you find one?"

"Unfortunately no, but I found a locked drawer instead."

"Which you opened," he noted, tilting his head with a faint, amused smile that didn't reach his dark eyes. "Naughty. What happened to professional boundaries?"

"They went out the window the moment you shoved your tongue down my throat to prove a point to your brother," I shot back, injecting a sharp, informal bite into my voice. "So don't talk to me about boundaries, big man."

Rafe chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound in his chest that felt shockingly warm in the freezing air of the room. He took another step, closing the distance between us until he was standing less than two feet away. The heat off his body radiated through the thin fabric of my dress, bringing that dark mix of cedar and rain with it.

"Touché," he whispered. "You hit hard, sweetheart. My jaw still aches."

"Good. Next time I'll use a shoe."

He set his glass down on the desk beside me with a quiet thud. His gaze dropped down to my arm, specifically to my shoulder, which was tense, pinned back to hide what my right hand was clutching.

"Show me what's behind your back," he said softly. The friendly, conversational tone remained, but the underlying command was sharp as a razor.

"Heck no."

"Dahlia." He reached out, his long fingers casually brushing against my collarbone. The touch was feather-light, almost romantic, sending a strange, electric shiver straight down my spine that made me hate myself. "Don't make me take it from you."

"Why do you have it, Rafe?" I demanded, my composure fracturing just enough for the raw, sharp pain in my chest to bleed through. I whipped my arm forward, slapping the black-and-white photograph flat onto the desk between us, right under the moonlight. "Seven years ago! I was twenty-one! I was in a park three hundred miles from here, drinking cheap gas-station hot drinks, worrying about my midterms!"

Rafe didn't even look at the photograph. His eyes stayed locked on mine, unblinking, heavy with a dark, suffocating intensity.

"I know what you were wearing," he said quietly.

"An oversized denim jacket with a broken zipper on the left pocket. You bought it at a thrift store for twelve bucks."

A wave of pure ice crashed through my stomach. My breath hit a wall in my throat. The shock was physical, a dull, aching pressure in my chest that made my vision blur at the edges.

He knew. It wasn't a random surveillance shot bought off some low-level private eye. He had details that weren't in any official database.

"Have you always stalked me," I whispered, the words coming out cracked, stripped of all my usual sharp bravado. "For seven years? Why? What the hell did I ever do to you?"

Rafe reached out again, his thumb brushing over my lower lip—soft, possessive, terrifyingly gentle. His touch felt like heat and pain all at once.

"You don't remember, do you?" he asked smoothly, his voice dropping into a dark, intimate murmur.

"Not a single detail."

"Remember what?!" I snapped, shoving his hand away, my chest heaving as drama and panic flared in my veins. "We never met! I never saw your face, I never heard your name until three weeks ago when your team reached out to my office! Stop playing these sick head games with me, Rafe!"

Rafe didn't get angry. He watched me rage, his expression softening into something almost pitiful—a terrifyingly sweet, friendly mask over a monster.

"You lie so beautifully, Dahlia," he murmured, taking one final half-step forward until his chest was practically pressing against mine, trapping me against the oak desk. He leaned down, his lips hovering an inch from my ear. "You look me right in the eyes and lie like your life depends on it. It’s almost adorable."

"I'm not lying!" I gasped, the physical closeness making my lungs burn for air. "I don't know you!"

"You saved my life, sweetheart," he whispered.

The room dropped into a dead, suffocating silence.

The words hung between us, heavy and bizarre, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong spot. My brain scrambled, pulling at memories, dates, faces—searching through the dark archives of my past, searching for any trace of him, but coming up completely blank.

"What... what are you talking about?" I rasped, my throat raw.

Rafe pulled back slightly, his face illuminated by the silver moon. The friendly smile was back, but his eyes were black pits.

"Seven years ago, in that park," he said softly, his fingers trailing down my arm until he lightly hooked his pinky with mine. "You did something very brave. And very foolish. You thought you walked away clean, didn't you? You thought nobody saw."

"I didn't—"

"You did," he interrupted gently. "And ever since that afternoon, I’ve made it my personal business to keep track of where you go, who you talk to, and who tries to hurt you." He leaned in closer, his tone turning dripping-sweet and icy cold all at once and had me clamping my thighs together.

"Did you really think it was a coincidence that your little investigation firm got that massive corporate tax break two years ago? Or that the landlord who tried to double your rent suddenly sold the building to a nameless holding company and vanished?"

My heart slammed against my ribs like a sledgehammer. Torture. It was absolute psychological torture, watching him lay out pieces of my life like chess moves he’d executed while I was sleeping.

"You've been controlling my life," I breathed, horror rising in my throat like bile. "You didn't hire me for three million dollars to act like an obsessed lunatic in front of your family. You brought me here to..."

"To bring you home," Rafe completed the sentence, his voice a dark, romantic purr. He reached out and picked up the photograph, sliding it back into his pocket. "Where I can keep an eye on you myself. Without having to rely on telephoto lenses."

"I'm leaving," I said, my voice shaking as I tried to push past him. "Contract be damned. I'm packing my bag and—"

Rafe caught my wrist. Not roughly, but with a solid, unyielding strength that made escape impossible. He pulled me back, bringing my knuckles up to his lips, pressing a warm, soft kiss to the back of my hand while his eyes burned into mine.

"You can't leave, Dahlia," he whispered, smiling affectionately. "You signed the paper. The money is already in your account. And more importantly..." He tilted his head toward the dark hallway outside. "My grandmother knows you're here now. If you walk out those gates without my protection, you won't make it to the end of the street."

I stared at him, my breath hitching in pure terror as his friendly, beautiful face turned into the scariest thing I had ever seen.

"Now," Rafe said softly, releasing my wrist and gesturing toward the door like a gracious host. "Go back to bed, sweetheart. We have a very big family dinner tomorrow, and you need your rest."

I turned and walked out of his room, my legs shaking with every step. But as I reached the threshold of the hallway, a small, laminated card lying face-down on the dark floorboards near his door caught the toe of my bare foot.

It had slipped out when I shoved past him.

I scooped it up in one fluid movement and ducked into my room, shutting the door and locking it tight.

I turned the card over under the faint light of my bedside lamp.

It was an old, faded employee badge from my father’s former logistics company. It was a company that had gone bankrupt eight years ago. But my father’s face wasn't on the badge.

Printed next to my father's title was the photo of a young, dark-haired man.

And the name stamped below it read, ORIN HOLLIS.