Taste of revenge

28

Chapter Twenty-Eight
Noelle

T here is one thing about this house that I'm not mad at.
The bathroom.
The master bathroom is the size of an entire room, a huge tub in
the middle as big as a jacuzzi. From the first moment I'd seen it, I'd claimed
the bedroom for my own, planning to take advantage of the luxuriant
atmosphere and relax.
After all, it's not every day that I get a weekend away from my family
and their watchful eyes.
Checking the temperature of the water, I smile in satisfaction. Turning
to the big vanity by the side, I open a drawer and I choose a cherry flavored
bath bomb, dropping it in the water and watching the bubbles as they start
to erupt to the surface, the color of the water slowly turning a pinkish red.
The smell is already wafting through the air, and I release a sigh of
contentment.
"Exactly what I needed after this day," I whisper to myself, the corners
of my mouth curling up in a smile.
Slipping my robe off my shoulders, I carefully fold it on a chair. The icy
air of the night hits my naked skin, and a chill travels down my back.
Without any preliminaries, I dip my toes in the water before slowly
submerging my entire body.
"Damn," a sigh escapes my lips as the hot water envelopes me.
And for the first time since the wedding bells had sounded, I let myself
relax.
Married... Again.

I still remember the joy I'd felt at hearing Sergio had died in the fire and
that I'd been widowed. At that moment, I'd vowed never to submit to
another man again—never to let myself be used and abused.
Yet here I am. Once more at the mercy of someone else.
The moment my name changed, so did my fate.
Forever.
Or until one of us dies first. Strangely enough, though, I don't want him
to die.
I should. God, but I should, if only to rid myself of the danger that
looms over my head—the danger he poses to both my body and my heart.
I take a deep breath, leaning back and letting my head rest against the
frame of the tub.
Raf—Rafaelo. The name rolls easily on my tongue, images of his baby
blue eyes flooding my vision.
I could hate him—and maybe I should. But he's not my enemy, just like
I am not his. Yet he cannot see past the curtain of hate that shields his eyes.
He cannot see past the preconceived notions he has of me. And I can't help
him either, since I don't have the information to confirm or deny his
accusations.
He's been living with us for enough time that I've managed to learn
more about him—and maybe that's the issue. Because the more I get to
know him, the more my regret deepens, my hope soaring when it knows it
will get shot down.
I've seen his bad side, but I've also seen the good.
He's harsh and domineering, his words often biting and bruising. But
he's also a fighter—and his perseverance is truly awe inspiring. Not many
can say they have survived Sergio's trials and lived to talk about them—
much less thrive in spite of the toll those drugs would take on the body.
I remember how he'd managed his prisoners, and how ruthlessly he
would use them, the drugs more or less stripping humanity from them. Yet
Raf hadn't let that stop him. If anything, it had spurred him on.
The muscles he hides under his clothes must have been the result of
hours upon hours of hard work—going against himself and what his body
had been accustomed to. Everything in his presentation, from his body
language to his countenance, speaks of both inner and outer strength.
And that makes him all the more admirable in my eyes.

The breadth of his shoulders invites protection and inspires reliability—
something I've never had in my life.
Maybe that's why I feel so heavily drawn to him. He is everything I've
never had but always wanted.
Most of all, even in his worst moments, he's never once tried to lift a
hand against me.
He hates me, that much is sure, yet he hasn't tried to hurt me until now.
Maybe my standards for what makes a good man good are too low, but
my experience has taught me enough about the world to recognize how rare
those qualities are.
And that's my dilemma.
I know what he feels for me—hatred, animosity, disdain. He can barely
stand the sight of me, and most likely detests himself for desiring me. I
know that, and yet all I see when I look at him is safety.
There's a warmth that spreads all over my body in his presence. It's in
the way his big body engulfs mine, his velvety voice caressing my senses
and lulling me into a sweet sense of comfort and security.
It's completely antithetic to the nature of our relationship. And for
someone with my history, it's completely illogical that I should feel that
way in the presence of someone, who by all intents and purposes, wishes
me harm. Someone who did harm me. What he threatened to do in that dark
room...he probably has no idea that it's still messing with my head.
And so I feel guilty.
I feel guilty for still feeling this way about him, my insides tingling at
his nearness, my heart bursting in my chest of happiness. It's not conscious,
though. If anything, it's instinctual—primal.
I've tried to stop myself. Talk myself out of this fanciful notion I have
about him. Because the truth is that at night, in the confines of my room, I
let myself dream. I let my mind draw up scenarios of what ifs.
What if he didn't hate me? What if he could feel more for me...? What if
he could love me?
Dipping myself under the water, I open my eyes, staring at the distorted
gilded ceiling.
It would be infinitely easier to nurture my own dislike of him if he
didn't act so contrary all the time.
Why did he save me?