across the room, slamming into the wall and landing heavily.
We can’t get out.
THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED TO ME BEFORE…
‘Rafa, what the hell?’
His eyes are blazing. ‘It’s a trap.’
‘What? How?’
Rafa paces the room. ‘I don’t know, but that prick out there does.’ He shifts, and slams into the wall again.
I rub my shoulder. ‘Oh, come on, Rafa, he—’
‘Wake up,’ Rafa snaps. ‘He brought us here.’
Shift, crash. At least now he braces for the impact, although it doesn’t stop the wind being driven out of him each time.
‘I’m going to kill him. I mean it. I’m going to rip his head’—shift, crash—‘off his fucking shoulders.’ He doesn’t bother standing up before trying again.
Shift—I wait for him to hit the floor, and then I pin him down, gripping his arms, my knees around his hips. ‘Stop it. This isn’t helping.’
His chest rises and falls beneath me in short, sharp breaths. My own pulse races. Rafa can’t shift out of here. We can’t shift out of here.
‘Just stop. We need to work out what’s going on.’
He pushes back against me, trying to move me. I tighten my legs around him so he can’t. My hair is loose, a curtain that touches his face.
‘I know exactly what’s going on. That little shit out there betrayed us—’
‘You weren’t even supposed to be here, Rafa.’
‘Which only means he was willing to sell you out.’
‘Jason didn’t sell anyone out.’ I can’t accept that. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after the risks he’s taken for Maggie. For me. Rafa stares at the ceiling, his jaw working. He’s barely noticed I’m straddling him.
Oh. I’m straddling Rafa.
I lose focus for a split-second and then I land on the hard floor at his side.
‘Not everyone is your friend.’ He gets to his feet.
‘Nobody forced you to come in here,’ I say, and sit up. The smooth board of the ceiling feels way too low. The room smells like stale coffee.
‘Oh, so this is my fault? Fucking typical.’ Rafa is pacing again. ‘It’s always me. Never anyone else. Never you.’
His entire being seems to expand and contract with his rage. This space is way too small for him.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘I’m not convinced this is the best time for that argument.’
He prowls the room twice more before finally stopping. I can see he’s not coping with being trapped—it’s probably the first time in his long life he’s experienced the sensation—but taking it out on me isn’t helping. And Jason’s outside, so we’ll be out soon.
‘Truce?’ I say to Rafa.
He cracks three knuckles and then holds out a hand to me. I let him help me off the floor.
‘Thank you.’
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. I go to the drawing board. It’s covered in floorplans and sketches. I pick up the top sheet; there are more underneath but I can’t make out the faint lines in the lamplight. I go back to the door and run my hands over the photos either side of it. There. A switch, hidden under a picture of a woman I don’t recognise.
A fluorescent light sputters and comes on. Rafa leafs through the drawings, flipping back and forth. His eyes are constantly straying to the door. ‘That’s the Sanctuary,’ he says without looking at me. I move closer. It’s the first time I’ve seen the Italian monastery from the outside. If these drawings are even remotely to scale, the Rephaite headquarters are seriously impressive. I glance over half a dozen pages, each showing a different angle of the mediaeval compound. Some are technical floorplans, others rough pencil sketches. Piazzas surrounded by cloisters and three-storey wings, dome-roofed chapels, an imposing façade with Corinthian columns. Hand-drawn arrows with scribbled notes beside them: Nathaniel’s private chambers, infirmary, library.
‘And these photos…’ Rafa moves to the nearest wall. ‘Some are surveillance shots of missions. Others are from personal
We can’t get out.
THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED TO ME BEFORE…
‘Rafa, what the hell?’
His eyes are blazing. ‘It’s a trap.’
‘What? How?’
Rafa paces the room. ‘I don’t know, but that prick out there does.’ He shifts, and slams into the wall again.
I rub my shoulder. ‘Oh, come on, Rafa, he—’
‘Wake up,’ Rafa snaps. ‘He brought us here.’
Shift, crash. At least now he braces for the impact, although it doesn’t stop the wind being driven out of him each time.
‘I’m going to kill him. I mean it. I’m going to rip his head’—shift, crash—‘off his fucking shoulders.’ He doesn’t bother standing up before trying again.
Shift—I wait for him to hit the floor, and then I pin him down, gripping his arms, my knees around his hips. ‘Stop it. This isn’t helping.’
His chest rises and falls beneath me in short, sharp breaths. My own pulse races. Rafa can’t shift out of here. We can’t shift out of here.
‘Just stop. We need to work out what’s going on.’
He pushes back against me, trying to move me. I tighten my legs around him so he can’t. My hair is loose, a curtain that touches his face.
‘I know exactly what’s going on. That little shit out there betrayed us—’
‘You weren’t even supposed to be here, Rafa.’
‘Which only means he was willing to sell you out.’
‘Jason didn’t sell anyone out.’ I can’t accept that. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after the risks he’s taken for Maggie. For me. Rafa stares at the ceiling, his jaw working. He’s barely noticed I’m straddling him.
Oh. I’m straddling Rafa.
I lose focus for a split-second and then I land on the hard floor at his side.
‘Not everyone is your friend.’ He gets to his feet.
‘Nobody forced you to come in here,’ I say, and sit up. The smooth board of the ceiling feels way too low. The room smells like stale coffee.
‘Oh, so this is my fault? Fucking typical.’ Rafa is pacing again. ‘It’s always me. Never anyone else. Never you.’
His entire being seems to expand and contract with his rage. This space is way too small for him.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘I’m not convinced this is the best time for that argument.’
He prowls the room twice more before finally stopping. I can see he’s not coping with being trapped—it’s probably the first time in his long life he’s experienced the sensation—but taking it out on me isn’t helping. And Jason’s outside, so we’ll be out soon.
‘Truce?’ I say to Rafa.
He cracks three knuckles and then holds out a hand to me. I let him help me off the floor.
‘Thank you.’
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. I go to the drawing board. It’s covered in floorplans and sketches. I pick up the top sheet; there are more underneath but I can’t make out the faint lines in the lamplight. I go back to the door and run my hands over the photos either side of it. There. A switch, hidden under a picture of a woman I don’t recognise.
A fluorescent light sputters and comes on. Rafa leafs through the drawings, flipping back and forth. His eyes are constantly straying to the door. ‘That’s the Sanctuary,’ he says without looking at me. I move closer. It’s the first time I’ve seen the Italian monastery from the outside. If these drawings are even remotely to scale, the Rephaite headquarters are seriously impressive. I glance over half a dozen pages, each showing a different angle of the mediaeval compound. Some are technical floorplans, others rough pencil sketches. Piazzas surrounded by cloisters and three-storey wings, dome-roofed chapels, an imposing façade with Corinthian columns. Hand-drawn arrows with scribbled notes beside them: Nathaniel’s private chambers, infirmary, library.
‘And these photos…’ Rafa moves to the nearest wall. ‘Some are surveillance shots of missions. Others are from personal
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