34
Isa
Smoke filled my lungs, drawing a ragged cough as I fought for air. Looking above my head to stare at the hook, I fought to pull myself up enough to get the rope off where it hung. It was too far, the curve of the metal too deep to allow me to lift my body with the way I dangled. My feet ached with how harshly I arched them to touch my toes to the surface of the bed, and the way the soft material compressed beneath me gave me no leverage to push up.
I coughed again, wincing as the flames progressed from the curtain to the area rug surrounding the bed. It went up in flames all around me, surrounding the bed in fire while I waited for the moment that the bedskirt would come next.
“Help!” I screamed, hacking up deep, wrenching coughs and thrashing my body from side to side. Hoping that something would jar loose in the ceiling or the ropes might loosen. “Rafe!” I yelled again, a strangled sob cutting off my desperate cry.
I wouldn’t die like this, alone in the bedroom of my would-be rapist.
I stretched a leg behind me, kicking at the pillows and slowly maneuvering one beneath my feet. It wasn’t enough, the plushness of it sinking too much beneath me, and a growl of frustration came free from my throat. I swung until I grabbed another one, pulling it forward and trying to stack it on top of the other.
But the fire came too close, catching around the bottom of the bed skirt finally. I knew I would have only moments before those flames engulfed the bedding itself, licking at my ankles before they could consume me entirely. I wouldn’t be given the mercy of dying of smoke inhalation before they reached me.
I sobbed, curling my legs beneath me and glancing around. There wasn’t enough time. I’d never be able to stack the pillows high enough to get myself free.
“Rafe!” I screamed again, my lungs heaving with the force of resisting the cough that tried to claw its way up my throat. Everything hurt, and I let my eyes drift closed as the flames crept up over the foot of the bed to touch the surface.
With a whimper of fear, I pulled my legs back and tried to make myself as small as possible. I tried to picture the view of the ocean onEl Infierno, the memory of the first moment Rafe stalked toward me from the pool atMoonin Ibiza.
Anything but the flames dancing toward me.
A deep bang reverberated through the room, making my eyes fly open. Rafe’s thunderous face filled my vision, relief warring with his fury as his eyes landed on me dangling from the ceiling and huddled in the center of the bed.
“Isa,” he rasped, the sound of his voice barely audible over the roar of the flames. He threw his gun to the side, stepping forward as I stared at him and wondered if he was real, or if my mind had created his image to offer some relief from the pain that was to come.
I could conquer anything, so long as I had him to hold me up.
The specter of my husband didn’t pause at the edge of the rug, striding through the flames as if they couldn’t touch him. Like the shadow of a former life, the memory of everything I had to fight for, he didn’t flinch back from the fire that licked at the hem of his cargo pants.
The heat had to be scalding. The pain had to be blinding.
But the phantom of my husband didn’t care.
He grabbed one of the bed posts at the foot of the bed and hauled himself up onto the surface with me. Fire touched his legs through his pants, his hand where he’d touched the post coming away seared bright red from the heat when he drew away and came to me.
He moved quickly, his body seeming to move faster than humanly possible. But I watched intently, memorizing the lines of his face and his body for what felt like would be the last time. Even if he wasn’t real, even if I’d made him up to not feel so alone, all that mattered was he was there with me in my final moments.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered brokenly, my voice trailing off. The thought of him going on without me, of him finding my burned body and mourning the style of death that seemed to haunt him throughout his life, that hurt me almost as much as the sweltering heat of the room that made my skin slick with sweat.
His hands dropped to my waist, touching me as I gasped through the shock that he was real. That he wasn’t a figment of my imagination designed to protect myself from the agony to come. I whimpered as he lifted me without a word until the rope knots at my wrists came free from the hook. He draped me over his shoulder, my world inverting as he jumped down from the bed and jostled me around in his hurry to get away from the fire.
He stepped through it again as if he couldn’t feel the flames. As if he was truly the devil incarnate, and even the fires of Hell couldn’t harm him.
Once we were free of the fire, he set me to my feet. His hands encompassed my face, his mouth slamming down on mine as he pulled me against him. There was no finesse, only the brutal possession of his lips against mine. The furious pressure that came from the desperation of thinking he might not ever see me again. I returned the passion he gave me, wishing that my hands were free so I could wrap my hands around his neck instead of them being trapped between us like a reminder of the remaining danger. I buried my fingers in his hair and reassured myself that he was real–that dreams or illusions couldn’t touch.
He pulled away, bending down to pull a knife from his boot and sawing through the ropes binding my wrists. “You came for me,” I murmured.
His eyes went shocked for a moment and he growled low in his throat, as if he couldn’t quite believe that I’d doubted he would for even a moment, but the insecurity that I could ever be worth this kind of risk was something that couldn’t be denied.
In my relief that I no longer felt it, I realized just how uncertain I’d been.
“I will always come for you,mi reina. Even when you do not want me to,” he said, tangling his fingers in my hair. He tugged lightly, forcing me to meet his eyes. My scalp burned with pain, sensitive from Pavel’s assault, and I watched Rafael’s eyes darken once again.
When we were safe, I had no doubt he would count every mark, every bruise on my skin and wish he could kill the Kuznetsovs all over again.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his stare pointed and conveying everything I needed to know. Some hurts couldn’t be healed; some violations would never go away. His fingers trembled as they touched what I imagined had to be the beginning of bruising on my throat.