Blood and Roses

chapter 10

Rafael

The night had fallen like a blanket of uncertainty. I had been careless-something I hadn't allowed myself to be in a long time. It happened so quickly, the gunfire, the chaos. A hit. A near-miss.

I remember the moment vividly-one second, everything was clear, and the next, pain exploded through my side. The bullet had grazed me, but that wasn't what rattled me. It was the thought of Camille. The thought that I could lose her, that I might not get the chance to tell her how I truly felt. The thought that maybe, just maybe, I hadn't done enough to prove to her that I needed her more than I had ever needed anything in my life.

As I stumbled out of the warehouse, clutching my side, all I could think about was Camille. I knew I had been distant with her lately-she could feel it, I could see it in her eyes every time she looked at me. I pushed her away, even when all I wanted was to pull her closer.

But I couldn't afford to let anyone in. Not completely. Not since... since the night I lost everything.

A part of me wanted to believe I could protect her from my world, that I could shelter her from the violence and danger, but it wasn't possible. Not when I was the one dragging her into the fire.

Camille had been pulling away. I noticed it every time she hesitated before speaking to me, the way she seemed to shrink back, her eyes no longer meeting mine with the same warmth. I couldn't blame her. My actions, my silence-they were driving her away.

It was all my fault.

I had tried to keep her safe, to shield her from the darkness that haunted me. But in doing so, I had only built a wall between us, a wall that Camille had begun to climb. And now, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop her from walking away.

I had to admit it-admit the truth that I had been hiding from myself. I was scared. Scared of loving her. Scared of being loved. My past was a prison, and I had been too afraid to let her see the real me. The man who was incapable of giving her the kind of love she deserved.

I never spoke about the night my father died, the day the mafia took everything from me. I had learned to shut out the pain, bury it so deep that I forgot how to feel anything but rage. But in that moment, lying on the cold concrete, bleeding out, I realized I had been running from the wrong thing.

It wasn't her love I was afraid of-it was my own inability to let myself love her back.

I stumbled into her house, trying to mask the pain, but the blood soaked through, staining my clothes. The moment she saw me, the panic in her eyes was immediate. It made everything sharper, the pain, the confusion, the overwhelming need to pull her into my world, but I couldn't. I couldn't let her in.

"Rafael!" Camille rushed toward me, her hands immediately moving to inspect the wound. "You're hurt. This is-this is bad. Let me help."

I tried to push her away. "It's nothing. Don't worry."

But she wasn't having it. Camille always had this way of cutting through the bullshit, of making me face the truth, even when I didn't want to. She pulled me down onto the couch, her hands working swiftly but carefully to remove the bloody fabric from my wound. The sharp sting from the movement made me grit my teeth, but it was nothing compared to the tenderness in her touch as she leaned over me, her fingers trembling just slightly.

"Hold still," she whispered, her face inches from mine as she tried to assess the injury.

I was hyper-aware of every movement she made, every breath she took. It felt like the entire room was holding its breath as she worked. Her hands were gentle, professional, but there was something in the way she moved-something that spoke of care. And I didn't know how to handle it.