Chapter 8 – The Fire We Feed
Valentina Cruz
The storm came at night.
Not the loud, dramatic kind that thunders its way through your dreams.
This one crept in slow.
Whispers of wind. A distant roll. A sky that couldn't decide whether to cry or just threaten.
It matched my mood perfectly.
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The villa was beautiful — the kind of place you see on Pinterest boards with captions like Live. Laugh. Love. Except here, it was more like Lie. Lust. Leave no witnesses.
Rafael had barely said ten words since we arrived.
I should've been relieved.
Instead, it pissed me off.
I didn't care how tragic his backstory was, how many enemies wanted his blood, or how tight his shirts were when he folded his sleeves.
The man owed me answers.
And I was done waiting for polite weather to ask.
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I found him on the balcony.
He was leaning on the stone railing, sleeves rolled up, staring out at the crashing waves like they owed him rent.
"You're brooding again," I said.
He didn't turn.
"I like the sound of the ocean," he replied.
"Of course you do. It's dramatic, endless, and emotionally distant. Just like you."
He glanced over, expression unreadable.
"You always this charming at midnight?"
"Only when I've been kidnapped and emotionally whiplashed by a mafia king who keeps forgetting I'm not a chess piece."
He didn't laugh. But he didn't walk away either.
Progress?
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I stepped beside him.
The wind tugged at my hoodie. Salt clung to my skin. Somewhere far below, the sea smashed itself against the rocks like it was tired of pretending to be soft.
"Why me?" I asked.
Rafael didn't answer right away.
So I asked again. Louder.
"Why me? Why target me? You had a thousand other ways to repay a debt. Why drag me into your bloody empire?"
His jaw clenched.
Then, finally, he said:
"Because you were untouched."
My stomach turned. "What does that mean?"
He looked at me — really looked at me.
"Innocent," he said. "Smart. Clean. No enemies. No secrets. You were the one piece I could place on the board that wouldn't betray me."
"So I was your… safe bet?"
He hesitated.
"No. You were my last chance."
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Silence. Heavy. Real.
Then came the lightning — a white flash over the sea that lit up his face like something ancient and mythic.
I should've walked away.
But I didn't.
Instead, I stepped closer.
"Do you regret it?"
"Yes," he said. "Every day."
Then — softer — "But not because I took you. Because I don't want to let you go."
And just like that, the breath I didn't know I was holding shattered in my chest.
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The rain hit seconds later.
Fast. Hard. Freezing.
We both flinched — then laughed. Genuinely. Like idiots.
He reached out, brushed wet hair from my face.
His fingers lingered on my cheek.
I didn't pull away.
And when he kissed me…
It wasn't soft.
It was desperate.
Like he needed to prove he still felt something. Like I was the only proof he had left.
And God help me… I kissed him back.
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We didn't make it to the bedroom.
Clothes hit the hallway floor like declarations.
His hands memorized me like a blueprint.
Mine trembled — not from fear, but from how deeply I wanted him to break.
Not just my rules.
But his own.
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Later, tangled in sheets and silence, I asked:
"What happens now?"
He stared at the ceiling.
And said:
"Now you either save me… or destroy me."