Rafael's Point of View
My room is dark except for the dim glow from the hall lights seeping in through the c***k under the door. I sit on the edge of the bed, my clothes still soaked, my boots leaving mud on the floor I do not care enough about it to clean it. My shirt clings cold to my skin, and my hands hang between my knees, fists opening and closing in restless rhythm.
I can still see her, Octavia, her hair plastered to her cheeks by the rain, her shoulders set like stone as she walked away from me. Not towards me. Away. My mate. I let a snarl slip at the memory, low and guttural, feeling an overwhelming urge to go after her even now. That I break down her door, pull her into my arms, and never let her out of my sight again.
But I do not move.
Because the warrior in me, the soldier
