Page 15 of Rafe’s Future

“I arrived in Charlotte as he and his team were heading out for the rescue. It was a quick reunion, but once the situation with Crawford was neutralized, we swapped numbers with the usual promise to keep in touch.”

“And have you? Kept in touch, that is?”

“There were a couple of texts exchanged shortly after, but you know how it is. We’re both busy with our jobs, and . . .” She let her voice trail. “You remember those days, right?”

Roger blew out a breath. “Oh, yeah. I remember. Just when you think you’ve found a moment of peace⁠—”

“Some asshole from the past puts a target on you and your old teammates’ backs.”

A deep, half-humored chuckle came through the phone. “Sounds about right.”

The half-smile that had been on Lena’s face fell as she thought about Rafe and all he and his own team had been through. “I’ll contact Owens and fill him in.”

“And I’ll tell Damien to watch his back. The powers that be are on this, but you all need to lay low until the prick’s caught.”

“Thanks, Roger. We’ll talk soon.”

Lena ended the call by placing the phone’s receiver into its cradle. And as she started to plan, she knew she didn’t just want Kozlova caught. After all this time, after what he did to her friends⁠—

I want the bastard dead.

CHAPTER THREE

Rafe opened the glass door to his shower and stepped out onto the plush mat. Droplets of water fell down the length of his body as a billowing cloud of steam rolled past.

Reaching out, he grabbed the clean terrycloth towel from where it hung on a nearby hook. He brought it to his face, letting his eyes fall shut. As he stood there, pressing the soft material to his freshly washed skin, Rafe took in several deep, cleansing breaths.

She’s going to be okay.

His daughter had made it through surgery, and her doctor assured them she was going to be okay. It was the same reminder he’d been giving himself every few minutes since leaving the hospital an hour earlier.

He pulled the towel from his face and began drying the rest of his body. When he was done, he tossed it onto the double-vanity’s marble countertop on his way into the adjoining room. Like most of the rooms in his Civil War-era home, the master suite was a mixture of historic preservation and modern style.

Period-appropriate paintings hung from its sage green walls. Restored wooden flooring had been stained to match the dark mahogany furniture positioned around the room.

The king-sized bed was centered between two of the space’s four floor-to-ceiling windows. Directly across from that was a fireplace that had stood the test of time. Its stonework, mirror, and mantle were all original to the structure. A piece of history all its own.

Too wired for sleep, Rafe went straight to his dresser where he retrieved a pair of boxer briefs and his go-to sweats. It was late, and he lived alone, so he didn’t bother with a shirt.

He turned and padded barefoot across the quiet room before making his way down the elaborately curved staircase. When he got to the bottom, he moved through the home’s grand entrance toward the short hallway a few yards away.

The narrow corridor housed his home office, a half-bath, and a linen closet too narrow to be of much good. At the far end was the entrance to Rafe’s favorite room in the house. A massive, up-to-date kitchen befitting a five-star chef.

The modernized space had been fully gutted and remodeled to fit his personal preferences. Commercial-grade appliances. Steel counters. A giant island in the middle with more than enough space to do his thing.

Cooking was a hidden passion of Rafe’s. Not only because he appreciated good food, but because it was quiet. Peaceful. In here, he could create something enjoyable while working through his thoughts.

Sometimes he would decompress. Other times, Rafe would process or plan. But mostly, it was his means of escape. This was where he came when he needed to get away from the harsh realities of life.

A life he’d built for himself and his daughter.

My sweet Alice.

Full breaths were a challenge as he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. Rafe shut the door, popped off the metal top, and immediately took a long, gulping swig.

He was in no mood to mess with cooking tonight. He was too wired. Too worried.

Too scared.