DEVIL

2.3 | Justice

Justice; noun: "the principle that people receive that which they deserve."

Warmth was continually spreading throughout Poetry's back, and there was the feeling of muscular arms snaked around her waist. Warm air was fanning her neck, and the distinct feeling of lips moving ever-so-slightly, traced against her skin. Poetry turned her head to look behind her, finding Rafe Cameron lying beside her in the bed. That was enough to trigger her memory from the night before.

Rafe looked peaceful while he slept; he didn't have his barriers built so high; he wasn't holding on to any anger or stress; it was as if he had no recollection of what he'd done to Sheriff Peterkin. To summarize, Rafe looked normal. Poetry imagined that's what he would've looked like all the time, if he had lived a standard, middle-class life. She didn't want to wake him; it seemed to be one of the seldom moments Rafe would be at peace.

Poetry tried her best to escape his grasp as subtly and silently as possible, but it was no use. Rafe's arms only tightened around her, like a snake constricting around its prey.

She gave up, eventually. Poetry wanted to savor the serenity on his expression as he was clueless to anything that may be happening in the world around him. Rafe stirred in his sleep, his eyelids finally fluttering open. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he mumbled in his tired state, his voice being much deeper than usual. "I would've, if you would've let up enough for me to reach my phone."

"Good to know that you find me appealing enough to stare at me in my sleep," Rafe chuckled, adjusting so that his face was buried in the crook of Poetry's neck. "To be fair, I stare at you when you're awake, too," Poetry said as she fully turned around, still in his grasp. "I know. I just don't point it out."

The golden morning sunlight poured in through the windows, and if she listened closely enough, Poetry could hear the sound of waves crashing in the distance. But, Poetry didn't want to focus on the sound of the ocean; she would've much rather listened to the slow and steady breaths from Rafe, and the distant, yet distinct, sound of his heartbeat. "I like waking up like this," Rafe commented, his voice coming out muffled.

"I think I like it, too." Rafe's head finally lifted from its place in Poetry's neck, propping himself up on his fist. "Really?" he asked as his eyes narrowed and a grin formed on his face; the question almost sounded sarcastic and accusing. Poetry only laughed and rolled her eyes, taking the opportunity to get out of bed.

The day went by smoothly; Poetry didn't mind hanging out with Rafe all day, although, she felt a little guilty, for not answering Ares' question the day before. She decided to abandon her phone for the day, and spend quality time with Rafe; she wasn't entirely sure why, either. Rafe got a phone call, holding a finger up to Poetry as he left the living room.

It wasn't long, until Poetry was already able to hear shouting coming from the bedroom. Timidly, she opened the door, revealing a beyond frustrated Rafe. He sat on the bed, hair disheveled from running his hands through it. He repeatedly rubbed his chin and jaw in aggravation. Noticing Poetry's entrance, he brought the phone down from his ear and muted his end. "I'm on hold right now. It's something for my dad's business, and they're not listening to me," Rafe explained, moving his hands rapidly as he spoke.

Poetry grinned at Rafe's blatant childishness over not getting his way. "Rafe," Poetry breathed, shaking her head as she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. "You've only been on the phone for less than five minutes; give it time," she grinned.

"They should listen to me regardless of-" Rafe began, only to be interrupted as he noticed he'd been taken off hold. Almost immediately, the shouting started again. Rafe briefly glanced over at Poetry, who arched her brows, like a mother silently discipling her child's actions. He sighed before taking a breath, then calmly explaining his side of the argument.