Chapter 8: Sleeping with the Enemy

The car rumbled down the empty highway, the tires droning on the asphalt as the silence between them stretched into uncomfortable eternity. Arabella's arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her chin tilted defiantly toward the window. She stared out into the blackness beyond, refusing to acknowledge the presence of Rafael beside her, though his every breath seemed to fill the car with an invisible tension. Her gaze was fixed on nothing at all, yet everything—every thought, every frustration, every sharp-edged feeling that had been gathering between them for hours—now seemed to converge in the stillness.

Rafael, however, was struggling. He couldn't handle the quiet—not the kind of quiet that pulsed with accusation, with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. He glanced toward her, but she didn't so much as twitch in his direction. He sighed and fiddled with the radio dial. Anything to break the tension.

He was met with a cheery, overly peppy voice announcing, "Are you ready to get closer? Nothing says love like condoms for real couples in real relationships! Order now, and take your intimacy to the next level!"

Arabella's head snapped around so fast he was certain her neck might snap with it. Her face drained of color, only to be quickly replaced by a bright, crimson flush that spread to her ears, her jaw slack in disbelief.

"Really?" she spat out, her voice an almost strangled gasp. Her glare could've burned through steel.

Rafael's hand flew to the dial, flipping the station with almost panicked speed. "Okay, okay. I didn't know, I—"

He froze. The new station blared the ominous tones of a news report: "...Rising AIDS statistics in the U.S. are causing alarm... health experts urge immediate action..."

"Great. This is so much better," Rafael muttered, his fingers quickly finding the off button. He sighed, then let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "Well, no need to waste battery on bad news, right?"

Arabella's stare didn't waver.

Rafael cleared his throat and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "Anyway, we're almost there." His voice was a little too light, a little too strained.

The car's tires rolled to a smooth halt, and Rafael threw the gear into park. The silence returned—heavy and suffocating. He opened his door with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, trying to shake off the mood, but Arabella's cold presence was a weight he couldn't escape.

Arabella stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement, and glanced around. "This doesn't look like a house," she said suspiciously, eyeing the sleek, modern building that towered before her. Its glass walls glimmered in the dim light, offering no warmth, only sharp edges and the gleam of money.

"It's a condo," Rafael said, brushing past her toward the entrance with that same lazy swagger he always wore. "It's home, for now."

"You live in a condo?" Arabella scoffed, incredulous. "That's not a home. That's a glorified hotel room."

Rafael shrugged, as if she were stating the obvious. "Same difference. Unless you're afraid of heights." He threw her a teasing look, his dark eyes glinting. "My place is on the 10th floor."

Arabella scowled, the edges of her mouth curling downward. "This better not be some trick to corner me." The warning in her voice was thick, though she couldn't quite explain why she felt it.

Rafael gave her a crooked smile, and she was almost certain it was the kind of smile that meant trouble. "Relax, baby. You're thinking too much."

Arabella's fists clenched at her sides. "Stop calling me baby."

Rafael raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Fine. Whatever you say, princess."

They stepped into the elevator in silence, the faint hum of the machine almost too loud in the confined space. Arabella's breath caught when they reached the 10th floor, and Rafael led her down a long corridor toward a door at the end. She could hear the faint thrum of music on the other side, the sound of a place that didn't feel quite right. A knot tightened in her stomach.

The door swung open to reveal an apartment unlike any she'd ever seen—a sprawling, open floor plan, sleek and modern with minimalist décor. Glass walls on every side offered an unrestricted view of the glittering city below, like something straight out of a magazine. Arabella blinked. She wasn't sure if she was impressed or repelled. Maybe both.

But one thing was certain: She wasn't here to admire the view.

Rafael stepped in first, carrying her suitcase with ease. "Home sweet home," he said, a little too smugly.

Arabella turned in a slow circle, trying to find something familiar, something that made sense in a space that felt like a showroom. "Where's my room?" she asked, the words sounding sharp as she spun back to face him.

Rafael pointed toward the center of the room, where a massive king-sized bed took up a disproportionate amount of space. The sleek, white bedding appeared almost too perfect, like it had never been slept in.

Arabella froze. "This is a one-room condo?"

Rafael's grin turned wicked, all teasing and no warmth. "Cozy, isn't it?"

A chill ran down Arabella's spine, but she couldn't tell if it was from the cold of the room or the unease pooling in her gut. She felt an instinctual tug at the back of her mind, a warning that she'd missed something, that this wasn't what it appeared to be.

As if reading her thoughts, Rafael casually tossed her suitcase into the walk-in closet before moving to the bed. He grabbed a towel from a nearby chair and threw it onto the covers. "You can take the shower first," he offered.

Arabella didn't move. Her arms remained crossed, a wall between her and him. "I don't shower in strangers' homes," she said flatly, her voice cold.

"Suit yourself," Rafael shrugged again, but this time his casualness felt forced, like he was pretending to be relaxed when everything about him screamed otherwise. "Oh, and don't worry about the bathroom key. I lost it a while back."

Arabella blinked, confused. "You had a key to the bathroom?"

"Had," Rafael corrected nonchalantly. "It's gone now. But hey, don't stress—tonight, you get half the bed."

Her jaw dropped. "Half? What do you mean, half?"

He spread his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture. "You sleep on one side. I'll take the other. It's a king-size, plenty of space. It'll be like a sleepover. Cozy, right?"

Arabella felt her blood run cold. "How about you sleep on the floor, and I take the bed?"

Rafael's laughter filled the room, low and insufferable, like it was some private joke she was too slow to understand. "Don't be selfish, lady. Share the space. Besides," he added, with a wink, "I don't snore."

Her fingers flexed, brushing the fork she'd hidden in her pocket—just in case. She might've been stupid to come here. But she wasn't stupid enough to let her guard down now. Something was off, and she wasn't going to wait around to find out what it was.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "But just remember—don't touch me."

Rafael raised an eyebrow, that dangerous smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned against the bed, watching her with an unreadable expression.

Arabella's hand tightened around the fork, and she made a vow in her mind: If he tries anything, he's going to regret it.

Arabella's hand drifted slowly to the back pocket of her pajamas, her fingertips brushing the cold, reassuring prongs of the fork she'd so carefully hidden there. The metal was solid, an anchor in a sea of uncertainty. Still in place. A quiet exhale of relief escaped her lips as she let her hand fall back into her lap, her knuckles brushing the fabric of the blanket. She straightened her posture, attempting to project an air of calm, but inside, her mind was a flurry of panic, of calculations, of strategy. What now?

The clock on the nightstand ticked steadily, a metronome to her racing thoughts. If she ran, Rafael would undoubtedly catch her before she even reached the door. There was no question about it—he was too quick, too clever. But staying put? That was no better. The danger around him felt like a ticking time bomb. She was alone, vulnerable, in his territory. Every step felt wrong.

A soft rustling broke her focus. Her head snapped up, and her heart jolted in her chest as she saw him— pulling off his shirt, muscles taut and gleaming in the dim light from the bedside lamp. For a split second, her breath caught. He had a body—of course he did—but it was the way the light caught the curves of his chest, the hard lines of his abdomen, the smooth sheen of skin, and that bulge - banana! - that made it hard to breathe.

Arabella turned away sharply, her ears burning as heat flooded her face. Focus. She squeezed her eyes shut, but still, the unmistakable sound of him unbuckling his belt reached her ears, each click of metal making her stomach tighten. She shouldn't look. She didn't want to look. But part of her couldn't help it.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and Arabella let out a long, shuddering breath, relief flooding her system. Thank God. She had only a moment, but it was enough. She bolted from the bed, her feet whispering against the carpet as she rushed toward her suitcase. She flung it open and dug through the mess of clothes, her heart hammering in her chest as though it were trying to escape. Her hands were shaking—no, no, she couldn't let herself fall apart. Not now.

There. A modest long-sleeve set of pajamas, the ones she'd shoved into the bottom of the bag in haste. The little strawberries that dotted the fabric were cartoonish, almost laughable in their innocence. The polyester scratched against her skin as she tugged it on, but it was something, wasn't it? At least, it was a reminder that she was still—still—in control of something, even if it was just her own modesty.

By the time she'd finished changing, the sound of running water ceased, and her pulse skipped. Now or never.

Arabella shot a glance over her shoulder toward the bathroom door, now slightly ajar. The shower hissed off, the low hum of steam filling the air. She didn't have time to second guess. She bolted for the bed, scrambling onto it as though it were her last line of defense. The covers were cool against her skin, and she pulled them up to her chin, settling in as though she had any hope of finding comfort here. But it was a pretense, wasn't it? The fork—still beneath the pillow, still there—was her only true comfort now.

The door creaked open. He emerged, and for a moment, Arabella forgot how to breathe. He was wet. The towel slung low around his waist barely covered him, and the dampness of his hair, his skin, dripped slow and maddening down his chest, following the contours of muscle and bone. It was torture in slow motion.

Rafael paused mid-step, his eyes catching hers. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering over her already tucked-in form. "Comfortable?" His voice was smooth, dripping with amusement. "It's a waterbed. Make waves, relax."

Arabella's glare could have leveled a mountain. She said nothing, but when he turned away, she allowed herself a brief moment of rebellion. A quick middle finger shot his way, an insult so silent and fast, he wouldn't have seen it if he'd turned a moment earlier. It was the only victory she could claim tonight.

She sank back into the mattress, pulling the blanket tighter, hiding the fork beneath her pillow for good measure. His presence lingered in the air like heat that wouldn't dissipate, and though she kept her face buried in the pillow, her eyes flickered toward him.

He paused by the closet, pulling on a robe. It was an absurdly luxurious robe—dark and velvety, draping over his frame like something out of a magazine ad. Of course. She suppressed a groan of frustration. Of course, he made a robe look effortless, and here she was in polyester strawberries, the least sexy thing in existence. But she wouldn't—couldn't—care. Not now.

Sliding beneath the covers, Arabella tried to ignore him. She focused on the steady rhythm of her breathing, her heart pounding faster than it should, trying to convince herself that she was safe here, in the relative peace of the bed. But then—

The mattress moved. The first wave rocked through the bed like a sudden jolt of electricity. Arabella's eyes snapped open. What the hell?

Rafael bounced again. Once. Twice.

Arabella let out an exasperated cry. "Stop it! Are you insane?" She clutched the blanket tighter, her fingers curling into the fabric for dear life, as though the bed were the only thing keeping her from floating away into madness.

"It's my nightly exercise routine," Rafael said, his grin infuriatingly smug. He shifted again, his weight making the bed ripple beneath her, deliberately exaggerated, like he was a child on a trampoline.

Arabella's grip on the sheet tightened as she fought to remain upright. "You are not a dolphin! Stop!"

"Fine." He dropped onto the bed with a heavy thud, the final wave of movement sending a last teasing shudder through her side of the bed.

Arabella's glare was pure venom. Without thinking, her hand shot out, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it with all her strength at his head.

He caught it with a laugh, his grin slow, deliberate, and wolfish. "You want to do something more... adult, then?"

Her breath hitched in her chest, and for a split second, her body went rigid. Her mind screamed for her to stop him, to shut it all down before it went too far. "Stop right there," she warned, her voice trembling. "If you even try something, I'll call the cops!"

Rafael's smile didn't falter, but there was something darker in his gaze now. "Hmm, last I checked, they were looking for you," he teased, his voice low and mocking, as if he were enjoying this game far more than he should.

Arabella's pulse hammered in her ears. "Shut up!" she snapped, her words coming fast and desperate. "We had a deal. You promised no funny business until Dante is caught!"

He leaned closer, his hand propped lazily against the mattress, his smile wicked and knowing. "Now and then—it's all the same. Give me a sneak preview. Take off those kiddy pajamas."

Arabella recoiled, every instinct in her body telling her to run. "No!" she hissed, clutching the blanket as if it could somehow protect her. "The theater is closed. Go to sleep!"

His eyes dropped, scanning her attire, and to her horror, he smirked. "Honestly, the strawberries are cute. Kind of a turn-on, actually." He reached toward her sleeve, as though to toy with the fabric, but before he could make contact, she slapped his hand away with the kind of force she'd never known she had.

"Sicko!" she spat, her voice laced with venom.

Rafael laughed—laughed—a rich sound that rumbled through him, before he finally relented. Sliding beneath the covers, he turned off the lamp with a click, and the room was swallowed by darkness.

Arabella lay rigid beside him, her body taut with tension. Her heart was pounding, a deafening beat in the silence. Too close. She couldn't bring herself to turn away from him, knowing full well the danger that lurked in the shadows. And in the darkness, the weight of the bed shifted, the quiet thrum of his presence pressing into her thoughts.

In her twenty-five years, she had never shared a bed with a man. The scandal of it, if anyone found out—her parents, Levi, the press—was enough to send a sharp chill through her veins. She could almost hear the headline: Heiress Found Sharing Bed with CEO: Scandalous Behavior in the Upper Class. The thought made her heart race, but in the dark, there was no escape from the truth. She was here. And no matter how much she hated it, Rafael was her only way out.