Page 62 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

brEAKING IN THE STORM

~RED~

H is eyes are wide, ice-gray turned liquid silver with tears that have nothing to do with the rain still dripping from his hair.

I've seen many men cry.

Watched millionaires become broke bastards in a heartbeat at the casino, sobbing over cards that betrayed them.

Witnessed them beg for their lives and mercy in alleyways behind the Crimson Roulette before triggers were pulled and bodies disappeared.

I've seen tears of rage, desperation, manipulation—every flavor of masculine emotion stripped of its protective shell.

But this is the first time I've seen hurt on a man's face that makes my own heart clench in pure agony.

Rafe, who wears control like armor, builds walls from ice and disappointment, and spent a month keeping me at arm's length—he's completely shattered.

Standing here in Mrs. Chen's coffee shop, soaking wet and crying, looking like a man who just realized he's been attending his own funeral for two years.

I'd been listening.

Had seen the truck's headlights when Rafe arrived but decided to wait when I noticed the second car. That's how cautious I've become—always watching for the second threat, the backup plan, the angle you don't see coming until it's too late.

Years at the casino taught me that predators rarely hunt alone.

I'd stood near the window, hidden behind the display of local artists' work, and heard every word through the thin glass.

Heard Luca's cruel taunts about kissing me— a lie so obvious it was insulting.

Heard him twist the knife about Sophia with the precision of someone who knows exactly where the old wounds are.

Heard him say those final words that broke something in Rafe: She doesn't love you. Sophia didn't either.

The coldness in Luca's voice had made me wonder if they were ever really best friends, or if that too had been some kind of long con. A game where only Rafe believed in the rules while Luca played by a different set entirely.

Now, watching tears fall from Rafe's eyes—real tears, not rain, the distinction obvious in the way they track different paths down his cheeks—I understand the weight he's been carrying.

The guilt of thinking he killed someone who loved him is crushing enough.

But the guilt of knowing she never loved him at all? That he destroyed his life, his pack, his oldest friendship over someone who was just going through the motions?

That's the kind of guilt that eats you alive from the inside out.

He tries to speak, his mouth opening and closing like he's drowning on dry land, but no words come.

What defense could there be against the truth when it's been carved into your bones for two years?

I don't think.

Actions speak louder than words…

Rising up on my tiptoes, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down into a hug. He's so much taller that I have to really stretch, but I manage it, pulling his head down to my shoulder like I'm trying to shield him from his own thoughts.

He's still at first, rigid like he doesn't understand what's happening. Like no one's hugged him—really embrace him, not those performative pack embraces—in so long he's forgotten how to respond.

Then slowly, incrementally , his arms come up around me.

Tentative at first, then tighter, then desperate, like I'm the only solid thing in a world that's suddenly gone liquid.

His face presses into my shoulder, and for a moment we just stand there, two people holding each other in a dark coffee shop while the storm rages outside. The silence stretches, filled only with the sound of rain and our breathing.

Then the first sob breaks free.

It's quiet, muffled against my shoulder like he's still trying to control it.

But once that first one escapes, the dam breaks completely.

The sobs rack through him, making his whole body shake with the force of grief finally being released.

He cries like someone just died—and in his crushing world that has overwhelmed him, someone had.

Maybe the version of himself that believed in that relationship, in that perfect life with the perfect omega, is finally being laid to rest.

I wonder if it was raining like this the day Sophia died.

If he drove through a storm like this one to reach the hospital, the truck fighting through flooding streets while his world collapsed.

If he stood in some sterile hallway, dripping rainwater on hospital linoleum, while a doctor explained that the woman who was supposed to be theirs had chosen death over continuing the facade.

The guilt of that— of knowing someone found death preferable to being with you —would destroy anyone.

But for someone like Rafe, who measures his worth in success and control and the ability to fix things? It must have been like swallowing broken glass every day for two years.

I hug him tighter, my hand coming up to stroke his wet hair.

I don't say anything—no platitudes about how it wasn't his fault, no assurances that she did love him, no lies to make this easier.

I just hold him and let him cry out two years of grief and guilt and the fresh wound of having his worst suspicions confirmed by someone who should have been his brother.

His tears soak through my sweater, mixing with the rainwater until I can't tell them apart. But I can feel the difference in the way his body slowly releases its tension, like a spring that's been wound too tight finally being allowed to uncoil.

When the sobs finally slow, then stop, I still don't let go immediately.

I wait for him to be ready, for that moment when he takes a deep breath that says he's coming back to himself. Only then do I pull back slightly, my hands coming up to wipe the remaining tears from his cheeks with gentle fingers.

His eyes are red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way I've never seen them. The ice king's armor has melted completely, leaving just Rafe—hurt, human, and heartbreakingly real.

I don't comment on what just happened.

Don't make him talk about it or acknowledge it or explain.

I take his hand— his fingers are freezing —and guide him to one of the corner tables, the one furthest from the windows.

"Sit," I say gently, and he does, folding into the chair like his strings have been cut.

I help him out of his soaked jacket, the leather heavy with rain. It squelches when I hang it over a nearby chair, and I make a mental note to properly dry it before we leave.

"I'll be right back," I tell him, squeezing his shoulder before heading to the back room.

Mrs. Chen keeps supplies here for emergencies—her grandson Tommy sometimes stops by after school, and he's notorious for destroying clothes with his various adventures.

I rifle through the storage closet, triumphant when I find what I need: a white t-shirt that looks about the right size, gray sweatpants with a drawstring waist, and miracle of miracles, a pack of unopened boxers.

Thank God Tommy's growth spurt has him almost matching Rafe's build. If it was Shiloh's broader frame, we'd be out of luck.

She was even more thnakful she’d even had the conversation with Mrs. Chen to know she had spare clothes.

I also grab a hair dryer from the bathroom and a comb from the lost-and-found box.

Perfect.

When I return, Rafe hasn't moved. He's staring at the table's surface like it holds answers to questions he's afraid to ask. I set the clothes down in front of him.

"You need to change before you catch hypothermia."

He frowns, looking around with confusion. "Where...?"

"Just change here," I say pragmatically. "I'll turn around if you want, but you need to get out of those wet clothes."

He stands slowly, mechanically, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

I should probably look away, give him privacy, but I don't. Not because I want to ogle—though the man is unfairly attractive even in his current state—but because I don't want him to think I'm ashamed of him, or uncomfortable, or any of the things his brain might conjure up.

I understand now that Rafe gets into his head a lot.

It's not his fault—between his need for control and perfection, and what must have been two years of everyone walking on eggshells around him, he's probably created entire narratives in his mind about what everyone thinks of him.

His shirt drops to the floor with a wet slap. His chest is leaner than Shiloh's, more runner than fighter, but still impressively defined. A few scars mark his skin—nothing like Shiloh's collection, but enough to show this man hasn't lived a soft life despite his expensive tastes.

He picks up the boxers, frowning at them with genuine confusion.

"Are they too big?" I ask, blushing slightly.

"Too small," he mutters, and I realize I've been caught staring at his hands holding the underwear, which makes my blush deepen.

"Well..." I stammer, looking anywhere but at him, "your junk can survive a tight squeeze during the car ride."

The smirk that crosses his face is the first hint of the normal Rafe I've seen since he walked in. He steps out of his soaked pants—and I definitely don't look, definitely don't notice the way his hip bones create those V-lines that disappear into his boxer briefs—and pulls on the dry clothes.

They fit better than expected, though the boxers are definitely snug if the way he adjusts himself is any indication.

I busy myself making coffee while he changes, using the expensive machine Mrs. Chen splurged on last year.

Two sugars, one cream—not too much, just enough to cut the bitterness.

I've watched him make his coffee every morning for a month, noticed how particular he is about the ratio, how he stirs counterclockwise exactly three times.

When I turn back with his mug, he's dressed and looking slightly more human, though his hair is still a wet mess.

"Sit," I command again, and this time he raises an eyebrow but complies.