FOR REVENGE, WITH HATE.

Wicked games - Chris Isaak

Arabela's pov

The house was silent.

Not the kind of silence that brought comfort, but the heavy, suffocating kind, the one that made you feel like the walls were listening, like the darkness itself had eyes.

I sat on the kitchen island, the cool marble beneath me grounding, my fingers wrapped loosely around the glass of water I hadn't taken a sip from. The events of the night replayed in my head on an endless loop. The bullets, the storm, the way my body had betrayed me in his presence. How his hands had steadied me when I was drowning in a fear I didn't want him to see.

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. No, I wouldn't think about him. About the way he looked at me, the way his touch felt against my skin.

But the darkness had a way of making thoughts louder.

A sudden glow from the fridge door bursting open, cutting through the night. I startled, nearly dropping my glass, my breath catching in my throat as I turned sharply.

Him.

Rafael stood there, illuminated in the dim refrigerator light, one hand gripping the door, his profile sharp against the cold glow. His soaked suit from earlier had been replaced by a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the first few buttons undone. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he had raked his fingers through it one too many times.

I hadn't heard him come in.

He was like a shadow,unpredictable, suffocating. And yet, my body tensed for an entirely different reason than fear.

He turned his head slightly, his gaze finding mine in the darkness.

His eyes were a storm I couldn't look away from. sage green, flecked with hints of grey and brown, like a rain forest, with fog and dark trees covering the sand beneath. Dark and scary . They were cold, unreadable, yet something about them burned, drawing me in despite every instinct screaming at me to look away. Arrogance and danger swirled in their depths, a silent warning that I was staring too long. But damn it, he was beautiful, and I hated him for it.

Neither of us spoke.

For a long moment, there was only the hum of the fridge, the faint drip of the faucet, and the sound of my own heartbeat hammering in my chest.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, rough.

I tore my eyes away from his, taking a sip of water to stall. "Drinking."

He scoffed, closing the fridge and plunging the room into darkness again. Only the faint moonlight through the window kept us from being swallowed whole.

The air was thick.

He leaned against the counter, his body relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching me like he was trying to decipher something.

"You couldn't sleep?" His voice had a quieter edge now, but there was something else laced in it.

I shrugged, fingers tracing the rim of my glass. "Would you be able to, if you were in my place?"

Something flickered in his eyes, something unreadable but it was gone before I could catch it.

"No," he admitted. "I wouldn't."

I blinked, surprised by the honesty.

His gaze dragged over me, slow, assessing. It was an unspoken power he carried, how he made the smallest actions feel like an invasion. Like he could strip me bare with just his stare.