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The barrier of thick glass does nothing to muffle the thud of Portis’ body hitting solid concrete.
The feeling that follows thereafter is a mixture of paralysing sadness and fear. Well, at least for Kiara.
On the other hand, in Rafe’s oh-so-proactive nature, the millisecond of shock spurs him into survival mode.
He snaps his head towards the girl standing beside him.
“Kie.”
Her eyes stay glued to the lifeless body that lies two stories below her. She thinks she hears her name being called, but it's subdued by the persistent ringing of a gunshot; her mind is tormenting her by playing it on a loop. Her eardrums feel like they’re on the brink of rupture.
“This diary,” he leans in to scrutinise “hey, no bullshit, do you have it?”
Save for the intense rise and fall of her chest, her shell-shocked frame remains still and angled towards the window. While her heavy breathing does slow down, it’s not in the way it’s supposed to. It becomes shallow as her pulse quickens.
Finally acknowledging what is happening, Rafe calls her name once more. This time his intention is to garner her attention, not to probe her for answers, so gone is the tone of acrimony.
Her name rolls off his tongue in a cautious whisper, “Kie.”
Within an instant, her malfunctioning nervous system crashes entirely. Suddenly, her throat is enclosing around a hot iron rod.
“Hey, breathe.”
Despite her panicked state, she still manages to send Rafe a colossal, unimpressed glare. Thank you, Rafe. Revolutionary advice.
Maybe it could’ve worked if it came from, say, Sarah’s mouth, but Rafe is the wrong Cameron to be giving such advice. Considering he once had his hand around her throat, it’s derisive to tell her to breathe.
Rafe’s expression sours as his lips form a thin line, and he nods curtly as if her thoughts are writings on the wall.
Kiara’s breathing is rapidly becoming more laboured. Rafe’s eyes flicker frenziedly, racking his brain to find a solution.
He is all too familiar with panic attacks, but it’s usually him who experiences them. It’s hard to help anyone in this circumstance, but it is especially difficult when the girl on the receiving end does not want his help.
‘Breathe’ is about to slip from between his lips again, but stating the obvious to someone who refuses to hear him out would be counterproductive, so he paces over to the bedroom door and repetitively slams his palm against it.
“Hey, open the door!”
Unfortunately for him, the door is made of solid timber, not hollow plywood, so his palms turn red-raw from the force he must use.
”Can we get some help?” What starts out as yelling a command turns into transparent pleading. “Please.” His voice box is almost as raw as his palms.
It dawns on him that his pleas are falling on deaf ears. No one will be coming to their aid. They are left to their own devices.
He approaches Kiara cautiously; though cautious or not, she would not notice when her eyes remain locked to the body on the other side of the window.
Of course, the only solution his depraved mind bestows upon him is one that requires him to carry out harm. He selfishly refrains because he doesn’t want Kiara to see him that way again. So to save face, he tries a much gentler approach than the idea running rampant in his head.
“Kie, look at me.”
She ignores his command plea, and he’s compelled to break the physical touch barrier. Rafe plants his hands firmly on her shoulders and twists her body away from the window to face him. He dips his head so he is at eye level with Kiara.
Her brows furrow, waiting for him to say something. Rafe knows that Kiara intends for her stare to be scornful, but her rounded gaze is anything but that.
“Please just—“ but he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. What else is there to say?
Accepting that time is of the essence, he follows through with his last resort idea. His reluctance is evident in the way his face twists, but, reluctance aside, it is imperative that he do something now.
Kiara’s eyes widen in disbelief when the gentle hold he has on her shoulders turns into a tight grasp around her neck.
“I’m sorry, Kie” he repeats over and over, but his fingers just tighten around her throat.
But sure enough, his plan works. Her reflex arc kicks in by recognising Rafe as a threat, and her crashing respiratory system revives itself. She’s gasping for air as her fingers vehemently claw at Rafe’s hand.
Logically, he should hold his hand there a couple seconds longer for good measure, but the guilt prevents him from doing so.
He withdraws his shaking hand.
Kiara takes in long drags of air as Rafe profusely tries to explain himself, “Look, I really am sorry. But you know why I did it, right?” He splutters.
When Kiara doesn’t answer him, he continues on his tangent, “You were on the verge of passing out, and clearly nothing else was working. I had to, Kie.” He gesticulates to emphasise his point, but it’s not poised and tactful like that of a person presenting an idea at a boardroom meeting; no, his hands fly around haphazardly.
He’s a faulty live wire, just seconds away from breaking and causing an electrical fire. Kiara is terrified about what that could mean for her. After all, they are locked in a room together with nowhere else to escape to, so if he burns, she faces the same fate.
Kiara’s teeth gnaw at the chapped skin of her bottom lip as she contemplates what she’s about to do. She is doing this to look out for herself, she couldn’t care less about how Rafe feels—the half-truth she tells herself.
So with her priorities straight, she claps Rafe’s hands together, then lowers them. “I understand, okay? Just calm down.”
It’s not a lie; she does believe Rafe’s apology is sincere. His feverish state says as much. However, her words are in no way an act of forgiveness; they're just an attempt to calm him down. And it works.
They both stand there silently, reading each other’s expressions. Rafe is trying to decipher if Kiara is being genuine, and Kiara is trying to gauge if she’s convinced Rafe. The way they mirror each other is uncanny.
The air is thick and the humid room makes her skin feel sticky. She’s starting to feel overstimulated again, and it’s not helping that Rafe won’t look away. When his spyglass stare is too much to handle, she turns her head to peer out the window.
A blunder she pays for immediately.
Kiara’s hand flies over her mouth as she rushes to the bathroom. She hurls her upper body forward and drops to the floor with her face hovering over the toilet bowl. Rafe follows her, standing in the doorway as he just watches her throw up. With each heave, her hair falls forward, and he is disgusted by the thought of vomit getting entangled in it.
Three long strides later, he’s standing behind Kiara and gathering her hair at the nape of her neck. His fingertips gingerly brush over her temples to ensure that he has collected every stray hair.
Rafe has seemingly become the picture of benevolence because not only does he hold her hair back, but now he’s kneeling down beside Kiara and reaching out to rub her back.
To Rafe’s surprise, she doesn’t push him away. Apparently, the forcefield surrounding Kiara Carrera isn’t as impenetrable as he thought it was.
She allows it because, as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, the gesture is soothing.
Her skin is smoother than a marble surface, so why then does he swear his palm is being pricked by a million little sparks of electricity? Lost in thought, his pinky finger slides beneath the thin strap of her dress. Before she can turn to snarl at him, he pulls the hand away.
She feels depleted after expelling all the food she had in her body (which was very little to begin with considering she had been on a sparsely vegetated island for a month). She uses the last of her energy to lean against the tiled wall and take a deep breath.
Acknowledging Kiara’s exhaustion, Rafe tries to haul her up, but she shoves him back.
His stumble is barely noticeable given how quickly he regains footing. “Seriously, Kie?”
”I can get up by myself; I’m not your doll.”
“My mistake, how evil of me to help,” sarcasm heavy on his tongue. “Go ahead then,” he challenges, shrugging his shoulders.
Her eyes turn to slits as she glares at him. She presses her palms flat against the floor, then straightens her elbows to push off of the floor. Her movements are sluggish, and she barely lifts off the ground when her core strength fails her and she lands back down again.
She hates the impish grin on Rafe’s face, and she’s intent on wiping it off, so she tries again, but to no avail. Her body is weak, and yet, despite knowing her limits, she tries once more. She lands flat on her ass, but this time her head hits the tiling behind her.
She hisses in pain and wraps a hand around the back of her head.
Her wish has been granted because she has effectively cleared the smile from his face. But this is not how she wanted to do it; a worried Rafe doesn't give her the satisfaction she wants.
“Okay, that’s enough.” His voice is stern as he crouches down in front of her.
“Let me see.” His arbitrary response is to check if she’s hurt, so he bends her neck forward.
He prods the back of her head, “Tell me if it hurts.”
She slaps his hand away, “It’s fine.”
“You’re going to get a concussion if you keep this shit up.” Rafe had been relatively calm up until this point, “For the love of God, Kiara, just let me help.”
Her innate stubbornness will never allow her to verbally admit that he is right, so instead, she throws her arm over his shoulder and allows him to help her get off the floor.
Rafe wears a self-satisfied grin, and Kiara seethes at that.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” his smile seems permanently etched onto his face.
“You want to, and I don’t need to hear it.”
Rafe gives her a cavalier nod, then wraps his arm around her waist as he walks her back to the bedroom. When the side of her leg hits the edge of the mattress, she rolls out of Rafe's hold and onto the bed.
"You’re unwell, not drunk. Stop acting like that.” He rolls his eyes to hide how amused he is by her theatrics.
Rafe takes a seat at the end of the bed, beside Kiara’s feet. And with no word of warning, he grips her ankle.
”What are you doing!” she screeches, her foot writhing in his grip.
“Are you going to be a bitch about this too, or can we skip it this time?” he huffs as he places her foot in his lap.
“You’re exhausting,” he whispers as he undoes the strap of her stiletto, slides it off, and drops the shoe on the hardwood flooring. He does the same for the other heel, though his grip eases up when she stops resisting.
Kiara is too tired to ward him off. Besides, she doubts that Rafe has ever taken on the responsibility of physically caring for someone, so she would be lying if she said she wasn’t slightly entertained by this.
”Okay, sit up.” He looks up to meet her inspecting gaze.
“What?” There was an incriminating edge to her voice, as if she were hastily assembling her thoughts after being caught.
"Sit,” he says, wrapping his hand around her back, “up,” then pulling her into his chest.
He is essentially holding her in something that could be mistaken as a hug. He fixes the pillow behind her and pulls the blanket out from under her.
Meanwhile, Kiara’s cheek is pressed against the side of his neck, and she’s hit with the smell of his cologne. Not only does it fill her nostrils, but it seemingly infiltrates her mind too; she’s having thoughts she most definitely shouldn’t have. Thoughts that are hued in the deepest scarlet.
Rafe had told her to stop acting like she’s drunk, but now she is starting to think she might be because she refuses to believe that sober Kiara would be this affected by a mere scent.
”Alright, you can lay down now.” He pulls back to look at her face.
Her inhibitions come back to her. “No, I can’t sleep. I need to leave. I need to get out of here.”
“We will. We’ll figure something out, but we can’t do it without sleep.”
‘We’ Kiara notes his use of the plural pronoun and grimaces. she’s not sure if the grimace is bought on by Rafe talking about them as a unit, or because she feels guilty.
She was resolute that she would be leaving alone; she reiterated it multiple times, yet Rafe made it clear that he wouldn’t be leaving without her. She shouldn’t feel guilty, but she does. She knows Rafe is a bad person, there are no qualms about that, but even he doesn’t deserve to die at the hands of Singh, a more ruthless evil.
Maybe it’s the guilt gnawing at her, but the words slide off her tongue faster than her brain can catch up, “We’ll get out here?” She poses it as a question to avoid coming across as overtly kind. She hasn’t entirely lost her mind.
To Rafe’s ears, however, her words are so sincere he thinks he has conjured up some hologram version of Kiara. Knowing her boundaries, he doesn’t ruin it by saying something stupid. Instead, he nods and smiles reassuringly.
They hold each other's eyes until a noise from beyond the room breaks the trance.
He clears his throat and taps the mattress as he gets off the bed. “Go to sleep, Kie.”
She lays down and reaches for the covers, but the position in which she lays means she can’t see that Rafe already has ahold of the corner of the blanket she was reaching for. Consequently, her hand glides over Rafe’s, but she pulls back just as quickly.
Kiara should feel inclined to scowl at him; she would usually do it without a second thought, but this time is different.
Whatever’s going on right now, Kiara knows she shouldn’t entertain it, so she closes her eyes to escape it.
The only problem is, Rafe's face is the last thing she sees before her vision turns black.
She feels the blanket envelop her, courtesy of Rafe Cameron. She accepts then that, even without sight, she can’t escape his presence.
So she stops trying to evade it.