Chapter 8: [Let Me Hate you, Just A Little Longer]

[Raphael’s POV]

Warm.

Too warm.

The kind of warmth that seeps into your bones and makes fire feel like mercy. I stirred, breath shallow, eyelids fluttering against the ache pounding in my skull. My body felt too heavy, too still, like something had died and was stitched back together just enough to breathe.

Where was I?

This wasn’t my room. The air here was too sharp, too cold in its silence. There was a metallic scent under the warmth, like iron and blood clinging to the shadows. I shifted, and a wince tore through my body—the pull of muscles not yet healed, bruises blooming under my skin like rotten fruit. The sheets were heavy. Stifling. They pinned me down with their warmth, thick as guilt, as memory.

Then the scent hit me.

Cologne. Clean. Expensive. Faint, but familiar enough to make my chest twist. My skin prickled. My heart stuttered.

Xavier.

My lashes trembled open. I blinked slowly, trying to focus. The room was dim, the firelight flickering over stone walls and cold metal. Ornate furniture framed the space like a warning. And there—just beside the mantle—hung a silver dagger, polished and sharp, too decorative to be casual.

This was his room.

Why the hell was I in his room?

My pulse stuttered, and I blinked again.

And then—I saw him.

Slouched in a chair beside the bed. His arms were crossed over his chest, his head tilted back in the firelight, bruises darkening his sharp jaw. His hair was a mess, falling over his brow like shadows. A thin scar peeked out from beneath his collar, slicing against the skin like a brand. He looked half-dead. Half-beautiful. Too fragile and too dangerous in the same breath.

And for a moment—I forgot to hate him.

I couldn’t move. I just stared.

Unmoving. Unbreathing.

Because there he was—the man who broke me in silence and stitched me back together with one look. The one who branded me with his hands and punished me with his absence for 5 year's. The one who made my body ache and my soul burn.

And now this.

Why?

I parted my lips to speak, but nothing came. No scream. No insult. Just one breath. Just one truth.

“Why didn’t you just let me die… you bastard…”

His eyes snapped open.

Hazel. Sharp. Awake. Like a predator stirred from sleep. For a moment, neither of us moved.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice low. Soft....but only on the surface. Underneath was steel.

I looked away. My throat burned, and bitterness spilled before I could stop it. “Unfortunately.”

He stood up. Slow. Deliberate. I noticed the limp—he was still in pain. He was looking more terrible then me. I was in daze when I again hear his voice.

“Thirsty?”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

He raised a brow and stepped toward the bedside table. “Your body disagrees. You drank from the glass I left three times while asleep.”

He handed it to me.

I slapped it away.

The glass hit the ground and shattered. Water spilled across the rug like a stain, soaking in like blood.

“You’re still dramatic,” he said calmly. “That’s how I know you’re getting better.”

“Don't pretend like you care, it's not gonna change the fact that I hate to to death,” I hissed.

His gaze darkened. “Good. That means you’re still alive.”

I tried to sit up, but my body screamed in protest. My limbs refused to obey. He stepped closer.

I stiffened.

He leaned down, bracing one arm beside my head, and I felt his breath brush against my ear.

“Clinging to my coat while whispering my name in your sleep is a strange way to show hatred.”

I can feel face flushed.

“You—”

“I found it in your hands when I came to check on you last night,” he cut in, voice smooth and smug. “Pressed to your chest like it could ward off death. Shall I start leaving more of my clothes behind?”

I slapped him—or tried to.

He caught my wrist midair.

Effortless.

His grip was firm. Not cruel. Not soft. Just unmovable.

I looked up.

Mistake.

His eyes were too close. Too raw. They held something I didn’t want to name. Something dangerous.

“Let me go,” I whispered, but it came out weaker than I meant it to.

He held my gaze for a breath longer… then let go.

I pulled away quickly, ashamed of the absence his hand left behind. My skin still tingled.

“You’re insufferable,” I muttered, facing the wall.

There was a pause.

Then—quietly—he said, “I was worried.”

I froze.

What?

I turned my head slowly. He was lowering himself back into the chair with a soft wince, his body still worn from punishment.

“You don’t get to say that,” I whispered.

He didn’t look at me.

“You don’t get to worry about me. Not after what you did.”

“I know,” he said softly. Quietly. Without excuse.

“And yet… here you are,” I added, bitterness bleeding through the exhaustion. “Playing savior after dragging me into hell.”

He met my gaze at last.

There was something broken in his eyes. Something pride couldn’t cover. Something raw and real and unspoken.

“I didn’t come here to play anything,” he said. “You’re not a game ba-.”

That… hurt.

And I didn’t know why.

The silence stretched between us like a blade. Pressed against the skin. Almost cutting.

Then—footsteps. Loud. Sharp.

Voices behind the door.

And the door slammed open.

Father.