Chapter 19: Seraphina

The air tastes different now. It's thick with blood and the sharp edge of a plan finally coming together. When Zorin's body hits the floor, the silence that follows is suffocating, like the world itself is holding its breath, waiting to see if I can survive the chaos I've started.

I've killed before, a thousand times in a thousand different ways. Each time, the rush was the same: cold, calculated, and clinical. But there's something about Zorin's death that feels… final. Not because I wanted him alive. I didn't. But because I realize just how deep this goes. The more I dig into the underbelly of the organization that raised me, the more I find that it has no end, no clean line between where the mission stops and where I begin.

I've been made into a weapon, a thing that kills on command, without hesitation. But nobody ever told me about the weight of that weapon. The pressure of the hand that wields it.

I don't hear Rafael enter the room, but I feel the heat of his presence before he speaks. "That's one down," he says, his voice low, a subtle rasp that seems to vibrate in my chest. He's always calm in the aftermath of bloodshed, always in control, always watching. "Who's next?"

His words hang in the air, mocking and precise. I look at Zorin's body, sprawled out on the cold floor.

"Who do you think?" I whisper, my voice thick with bitterness and the sour taste of revenge.

Rafael steps into my line of sight, his gaze piercing. His dark eyes glitter with something more than interest—there's a flicker of something dangerous in them, a promise, or maybe just the reflection of his own thirst for power.

"This is just the beginning, Seraphina," he says. "You can't take down the whole organization by yourself."

"I don't need to," I reply. The words slip out with a confidence I don't entirely feel. I don't need anyone. Not him, not them. All I need is the end of this.

Rafael's lips twitch into a half-smile, a dark edge to his expression. He steps closer, closer than I thought possible, until we're nearly touching. My pulse spikes, but I force myself to ignore it. I won't let him see how much he affects me. Not now, not ever.

"You're not alone in this," he says, his voice low, almost soothing in its intensity. "I'm here. And I'm not leaving."

I feel the words scrape at my insides like a blade. I don't want to need him, but I can't deny the heat that builds between us. The undeniable pull. He's a force of nature—dangerous, captivating, and all-consuming. But that's precisely why I can't afford to let him get too close.

I take a step back, but he's too quick, stepping into my space with all the arrogance of a man who knows he has nothing to lose.

"I don't need you," I say, but even as the words leave my lips, they sound weak.

Rafael's eyes narrow, his gaze sharp, and for a moment, I see something flicker in his expression—something more primal, more dangerous than I expected.

"You'll learn that you do," he murmurs, his voice so soft, so sure, that it sends a shiver down my spine.

Before I can respond, his hand reaches up, cupping my jaw, pulling my face closer to his. My breath catches in my throat. His touch is possessive, demanding. His thumb traces the line of my cheek, just below my ear, like he's studying me, claiming me.

I don't know what possesses me, but I lean into his touch, closing the distance between us. My breath mingles with his, and for one stolen moment, the world outside of us fades into nothing.

The kiss comes without warning, hard and desperate, a clash of teeth and heat. There's no gentleness in it, no romance. This is war. His hands grab me—rough, unrelenting. He pulls me against him with the force of someone who knows he has nothing left to lose.

I meet him halfway, pulling at his shirt, eager to feel his skin beneath my fingertips. The urgency in our movements speaks volumes. This is not about desire; it's about need. About claiming what's ours, about burning down the walls we've built to keep the pain at bay.

His hands trail down my body, tugging at my clothes, his lips never leaving mine. He presses me harder into the wall, his body flush against mine, and I can feel every inch of him—every muscle, every sharp edge of tension in his frame.

"I hate you," I murmur against his lips, my voice rough, the words tasting like poison.

Rafael doesn't flinch. "Then why the fuck do you keep coming back to me?" he growls.

His question hangs in the air, unanswered, because I don't have an answer. I don't know why I keep coming back. Maybe because I'm broken, just like he is. Maybe because, in this fucked-up mess, we've found something that neither of us was ever supposed to find—understanding.

"I don't need you," I whisper, my hands still roaming over his body, my nails scraping against his skin, marking him.

"You'll learn that you do," he repeats, his voice low and dangerous, full of a promise I'm not sure I want to hear.

I don't answer. I can't.

Instead, I bite down on his lip, sharp and hard, as a reminder that I'm not his to control.

Not yet, anyway.