Dishonorable

“No.”

She stayed where she was. She reached out to touch the ring, then pulled her arm back, hugging herself.

I rolled my eyes and sighed as if irritated, even though it broke me a little to do it, to see her like this. To know I was the cause of her pain. Again.

But it was better this way. Better for her. Safer for her.

Maybe when this mess was finished…

No.

No maybes.

No future.

This was finished. It had to be, for her sake.

“Listen, I’ve got somewhere to be. You go back home. Eat dinner. Go to bed like a good little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl.”

“Well, you are, actually. And I’m a little tired of the virgin girl act, honestly.”

“You don’t mean that.”

No. I didn’t. But she had to think I did.

“It was fun for a while. But it’s time for me to move on. To put the past behind me. What was it you said? If I let the past go, maybe it will let me go? I think you were right.” I looked around, gesturing big with my hands. “All this is the past. You’re the past. I’m done with it. I want to live my life, and the only way I can do that is to walk away. Let it go, so it lets me go.”

She just stared at me.

“Let’s get out of here, Sofia.”

“You want this? You want to walk away?”

“Yes.” Something in my chest twisted. “And if you really do believe you love me, you’ll do as I say and let me go.” Fuck. I was a first-class asshole. I didn’t deserve to lick the ground she walked on, but I needed to drive the nail into the coffin. “I’m hungry. Let’s go.”

She shook her head and sat down. “Go.”

“You can’t find your way back.”

“I can find my own way. I don’t need you.”

I watched the back of her head, saw her draw her knees up on the pew and hug herself.

“Come on.”

“Go, Raphael.”

“Sofia—”

“Just go! Pull the fucking Band-Aid off, right? Just go.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.”

I walked out of the chapel and toward the house, hating to leave her there alone, knowing I had to. Because if she hated me, this would be easier.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sofia

I don’t know how long I sat in the chapel like that, but by the time I got back to the house, a single light was left on over the stove and Raphael’s car was gone. Charlie was the only one waiting for me. The moment I opened the door, he nudged his little nose around the corner, and I bent to pick him up and hug him to me.

What had happened in the last three weeks? Had it been in those weeks that Raphael had come to the realization he didn’t want this? Didn’t want me? Or was this the truth all along? Was I just blind?

I really thought he’d cared about me.

No, more than that.

I thought he loved me.

A sudden chill made me shudder, and I carried Charlie up to my bedroom.

When Raphael had stood like he had, with me kneeling at his feet, when he’d looked at me, I’d seen something so strange in his eyes. So at odds with what he was saying. At least for one single and very fleeting moment.

Once inside my room, I set Charlie down. He circled my legs twice then looked up at me with his big puppy-dog eyes. I bent to pet him, and he took a finger in his mouth and gently tried to tug me toward the bed.

“You go ahead, sweetie. I can’t sleep yet.”

He whined, and I swear he knew I was hurting, but when I straightened, he went to the bed and hopped up on his own. He was growing.

I walked into the bathroom and fished Raphael’s wedding ring out of my pocket. Studying it, I touched my thumb to the sharp thorns along the inside of the band. I turned on the water and rinsed it, cleaning off the blood before setting it on the edge of the sink. I then slipped mine off my finger and put it down beside his.

Gripping the edge of the sink, I doubled over, feeling like I would vomit, feeling like something deep inside my belly needed to be expelled. Thrown up. But there was nothing. Nothing but tears, thick and heavy. Although I knew no one could hear me, I covered my mouth against my sobs and wept for what seemed like an eternity until finally, I was dried out, nothing left inside me.

He didn’t love me.

He didn’t want me.

He wanted me to believe this whole thing had been a game to him, but I couldn’t. Not when I remembered his face down in the cellar, not when I’d felt his hand on my cheek as he told me he didn’t love me. That he was tired of me. What had he said? Tired of his virgin girl?