Too many seconds pass, but I still don’t open my eyes. This shouldn’t take so long.
Finally, I hear his rough voice. “Get up.”
I open my eyes and look up at him. “What?”
He pulls his gun away from my for
ehead and drops it to his side. “Get up off the ground.”
Watching him warily, I do.
Rafe nods at the bed. “Sit down.”
Still unsure, I ease back and perch on the edge of his bed.
Appearing legitimately distressed, he rakes a hand through his hair, still with his gun at his side. He paces back and forth a few times, takes a few breaths. He’s struggling. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to kill me.
I’m too afraid to hope that means he won’t. I just got into a serene headspace, and I don’t want to go through all that again.
Finally, Rafe walks over to his dresser and puts the gun down. When he turns around, he tells me, “Get in bed.”
“What are we…? What’s happening, Rafe?”
“I’m tired. It’s been a long fucking day. Get over on your side of the bed.”
I don’t know what to say. What to ask. On one hand, if he’s having second thoughts, I would like to help him sort through those so we can land on a sensible end that includes me not dying. On the other hand, if he’s having second thoughts and my trying to reinforce them would backfire, I want to keep my mouth shut.
I scoot back on the bed, and Rafe walks over, hits the light, and approaches his side of the bed in the darkness. “Can you tell me what happened just now?” I ask him.
“I just changed my mind,” he says simply.
Hope leaps in my gut. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“No.”
“Then what…?”
He pulls back the blankets, climbs under them, and says simply, “I’m going to marry you.”
36
Virginia
My eyes are so irregularly wide for so long, they go dry. “What?”
His tone is harsh. “This isn’t some fairytale ending, don’t go getting that in your head. This is the only workable alternative I can think of. When we’re married, you’ll belong to me. I’ll be able to keep an eye on you to protect my men. To protect myself, there’s spousal privilege. Even if they ever do get you on a witness stand, they can’t make you talk about me if we’re married. And the wife of a mob boss damn sure isn’t going to join the FBI.” He glances at me, yanks the blankets up around him, and says, “There you go. I made your choice for you. You’re on my side—whether you want to be or not.”
He’s still angry. He’s telling me we’re getting married, but he’s still distrustful. This isn’t what I want. I never imagined there would be a day Rafe Morelli would offer me marriage, and I wouldn’t want it.
Then again, he didn’t offer me marriage—he ordered it, like a punishment.
I don’t even want to think about how he’ll treat me. How he can hurt me if we’re married. I know he wasn’t good to Laurel when he felt ensnared by her, and he didn’t even dislike her. He wasn’t angry at her. He just felt trapped and inherently needed to push her away.
With me, it could be so much worse. Trapped with a woman he knows loves him, he’ll know just how to hurt me if he wants to.
I can’t believe I’m shaking my head no, but I am.
“Why are you doing that?” he demands.