The night air was a cruel contrast to the fire still smoldering in Amara's veins. She stood there, breathless, the ghost of Rafael's touch still tingling on her skin, but he was gone. Just like that. Vanished into the darkness, leaving her standing on shaky legs, her body betraying her mind. Her lips were swollen, her pulse erratic, and yet, the moment had shattered like fragile glass the second his phone rang.
Reality hit her like a freight train.
What the hell had she just done?
She pressed trembling fingers against her lips, trying to steady herself, but the alcohol in her system made it impossible. Her head spun, a dizzying blur of heat and cold, lust and confusion. Leah's voice had vanished into the noise of the club, and as Amara turned, searching through the flashing lights and writhing bodies, she realized she was alone.
Panic bloomed in her chest. Where was Leah?
She pushed through the crowd, the bass of the music pounding through her skull, worsening the throbbing in her temples. Her stomach churned, a mix of alcohol and unease twisting inside her like a vice. The club, once a blur of heat and thrill, now felt suffocating. Shadows stretched unnaturally, faces blurred together, the scent of sweat, alcohol, and cigarette smoke choking her.
Then, a hand touched her arm.
Amara whirled around, her breath catching in her throat. A man stood before her—tall, broad, unfamiliar. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes bore into hers with an unsettling intensity. "Rafael sent me," he said, his voice low, almost drowned out by the music. "He told me to take you home."
Her stomach dropped.
"W-what?" she stammered, her pulse spiking. She swayed slightly, her balance unsteady. She didn't know if it was the alcohol or the sheer confusion gripping her mind.
The man didn't move closer, but there was something in his stance—calm, patient, yet firm. "Rafael," he repeated, "said you shouldn't be here alone."
A sliver of something cold curled around her spine. Rafael. He had been so composed, so sure of himself, and then—gone. Who was this man? Why would Rafael send someone instead of coming himself? She should refuse. She should run. But her body was betraying her, exhaustion and intoxication making it impossible to think clearly.
Before she could speak, another voice cut through the haze.
"Amara!"
Relief crashed over her like a wave as she turned to see Leah pushing through the crowd, her expression frantic. Another man was beside her, his grip firm on her arm. The second man glanced at the first before nodding slightly, a silent understanding passing between them. Leah stumbled slightly, and Amara realized with a sinking feeling that she wasn't much better off than herself.
"Come on," the first man said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We're leaving."
Too tired to resist, too drunk to argue, Amara let them lead her out.
Rafael stepped into the grand estate, the heavy oak doors shutting behind him with a finality that sent a cold shiver down his spine. The silence was suffocating, thick with the kind of tension that had haunted him since childhood. He barely had time to steady himself before a voice cut through the stillness like a blade.
"On your knees."
His father's voice was calm. Deceptively so. A storm coiled beneath those words, and Rafael knew better than to hesitate. He dropped to his knees on the polished marble floor, fists clenching at his sides.
Footsteps echoed through the vast hall, deliberate and slow, dragging out the inevitable. Rafael kept his gaze forward, jaw locked, though his pulse thundered in his ears. His father came into view—a towering figure, his presence as oppressive as ever. The man's expression was unreadable, his gaze dark with quiet fury.
"You disobeyed me. Again."
Rafael remained silent. He had learned long ago that words only made it worse.
His father let out a slow, measured breath. "What happened at the university?"
A pause. Then, "I don't know what you're talking about."
The first strike came fast—so fast Rafael barely had time to register it before pain exploded across his face. His head snapped to the side, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth. He exhaled sharply, bracing for more.
"Don't insult my intelligence." His father's voice remained eerily calm, which only made it more terrifying. "Do you think I don't hear? That I don't see?"
A sharp crack split the air as the cane struck his back. Rafael's muscles seized, his breath catching in his throat, but he didn't make a sound. The second blow landed harder, burning hot against his skin. His body rocked forward slightly, but he remained kneeling, his head bowed in quiet defiance.
"She is a distraction," his father murmured, pacing in front of him. "You have one purpose. One path. And yet you insist on acting like a fool. Like a disappointment."
Another strike. This time across his ribs. Rafael bit back a groan, his hands pressing into the floor to steady himself.
The world blurred at the edges, but the past came back with crystal clarity.
A boy, smaller, weaker, trembling under the same brutal strikes. A woman's voice, desperate and broken—
"Stop! He's just a child!"
His mother had begged that night. Had thrown herself between them, shielding him with her own body. She had clutched him, whispering promises, prayers—
"You will not touch him again."
But his father had only laughed, his grip tightening on the cane before swinging it mercilessly down upon her instead. Her cries had echoed through the halls, and Rafael—helpless, sobbing—could only watch as she suffered for him.
His hands curled into fists now, nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the present. But the past was never far behind.
Another strike. Another. The pain seared through his back, blooming into something raw and unbearable, yet he didn't fall. He wouldn't give his father the satisfaction.
His vision blurred, the edges of the room swimming in and out of focus. His heartbeat pounded in his skull, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. Darkness curled at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to pull him under.
A final blow, harder than the rest, sent him collapsing forward, his palms slamming against the marble floor. His entire body trembled, the pain too much to contain, but he forced himself to remain silent. Always silent.
His father crouched beside him, gripping his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Weakness will not be tolerated. If you continue down this path, she will suffer for your mistakes. Do you understand me?"
Rafael could barely focus, his world tilting dangerously, but he managed a slow nod. Anything to end this.
His father released him with disgust. "Get out of my sight."
Then there were hands—strong, steady—lifting him. The voice was distant, barely a murmur above the roaring in his ears. Someone carrying him, guiding him away. He barely registered the journey up the stairs, the feel of soft sheets beneath his battered body.
But before unconsciousness claimed him, one thought remained, slipping through the cracks of his pain-ridden mind.
Amara.
She was still there, still lingering in the corners of his thoughts, still haunting him.
Even in the darkness, she remained.
And then everything went blank.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Rafael drifted in and out of consciousness, trapped between waking agony and the merciless grip of his nightmares. Pain coiled in his muscles, sharp and unrelenting, spreading like wildfire across his skin. Every movement, even the shallow rise and fall of his chest, sent searing pain through his body, a cruel reminder of what had transpired just hours ago.
He wasn't sure what was real anymore.
The room was suffocating, the air thick with the scent of blood and sweat. His body was broken, bruises blooming across his skin like dark ink stains, ribs aching with every breath. His father's voice still echoed in his ears, a phantom whisper cutting through the silence.
Now, lying in the darkness of his room, the memory bled into his dreams, suffocating him.
He saw his mother's face, pale and tear-streaked, whispering his name.
He saw his father's cold, unfeeling eyes, watching, always watching, waiting for him to fail.
Then he saw her.
Amara.
Her lips swollen from his kiss. Her body pressed against his. The way she had trembled under his touch, not in fear but in something far more dangerous—desire.
A mistake.
The thought sliced through him, sharper than any wound his father had inflicted. Amara was a mistake. Whatever this was between them, it was doomed before it even began.
Rafael sucked in a ragged breath, his fists clenching at his sides as a new pain settled in his chest—one that had nothing to do with bruises or broken ribs. He had let himself slip, let himself feel. And now, he was paying the price.
He wasn't allowed to want. He wasn't allowed to need.
Not her. Not anyone.
With a trembling hand, he pressed his palm over his ribs, feeling the sharp stab of pain beneath his touch. His body was a canvas of violence, marked with reminders of what happened when he let himself lose control.
He couldn't afford to lose control again.
He had to forget her.
He had to forget the way her body had felt beneath his, the way her breath had hitched when he whispered her name, the way she had looked at him—as if he were something more than just a monster molded by his father's hands.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, rough and broken.
She thought she saw something in him. She was wrong.
He was nothing but ruin, and if she got too close, he would destroy her too.
Rafael closed his eyes, letting the darkness swallow him once more.