Rogue (Dead Man's Ink, #2)

“Tell me.”


“Because you want me to have closure. You want me to be the one who buries him. You want me to be the one who shovels dirt onto his body and sends him away forever. You want me to understand he’s never coming back, and he’s never going to hurt me again. That’s why.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. She’s hit the nail on the head; without this sort of closure, she’ll only ever remember him with his hands on her, trying to force himself on her. He would always seem stronger than her in her mind. More dangerous. He would forever haunt her. Now, like this, broken, just a slowly degrading husk, he has no power. Yes, he looks terrifying, covered in all that blood, staring up at the star speckled night sky with his mouth yawning open in surprise, but he also looks small. Weak. Incapable of causing her any more pain.

I nuzzle my face into her hair, breathing her in, trying to transfer some of my strength to her. She’s already so damn strong, but that’s irrelevant. If I could carry this burden for her, I would. If I could have been the one to kill him, I would have. I should have. I don’t ever want her to hurt or suffer any more than she has to. “Do you want me to help you?” I whisper.

She squeezes her hand in mine, taking a deep breath. “No. No, it’s all right. I can do this.”

She gets to work. Even after she’s pulled on the gloves I gave to her at the clubhouse, I can tell she doesn’t want to touch Raphael. She has to in order to get his body into the hole, though, so she steels herself and then grabs him under the arms, the same way I did when I dragged him from the car.

Raphael was a big guy, and Soph is nowhere near as strong as me, so it’s not as easy for her to maneuver him to the side of the grave. She doesn’t give up, though. She positions his body directly beside the gaping hole in the ground and then she straightens, staring down at the man who’s plagued her dreams since that night back in Seattle.

“You were a vile piece of shit in life, Raphael. And you’re a vile piece of shit now. Fuck you.” She trembles as she spits on his body. Trembles as she uses her foot to shove him roughly into his final resting place. He lands face down, which feels highly appropriate. A strange sense of pride washes over me as my girl tosses the first shovel-load of dirt into the hole.

“My father would have a fit if he knew I was doing this,” she says.

“Burying the man who assaulted you?”

“Burying him like this, face down, with no blessing and no prayer for his soul.”

“Your father’s religious?”

She remains quiet for a second. I know it’s hard for her—she still hasn’t given me her real name, and I haven’t pushed for it. I know her last name is Romera, or at least her father’s last name is, but even that wasn’t information she volunteered. I heard him say it when she called him on that payphone back in Alabama. She still feels conflicted about parting with information that might endanger her family, and I get that… But she has to get that I am not a danger to her family. She must know that. The main threat to her family is now being covered with the dirt she’s letting fall from her shovel.

I don’t think she’s going to answer me, but then she speaks after all, talking in muted, quiet tones. “Yeah. He’s a preacher for all intents and purposes. My family are pretty devout Christians.”

I had no idea about this, but it fits. When I first met her, she had that uptight air about her that spoke of a sheltered, strict upbringing. That’s gone now, lost to the four winds. Now, she seems like an entirely different person.

I sit on the ground by the graveside and watch as she labors to fill it in. The work is backbreaking but she doesn’t complain and she doesn’t ask me to do it for her. With every load of dirt she piles on top of Raphael Dela Vega’s body, she seems to become more and more confident, her back straightening, her eyes flashing with determination. When it’s done, Sophia drops the shovel to the ground, rips off the gloves I gave her, and sinks to the ground beside me. My arm finds its way around her shoulders instinctively, and she folds into me, resting her head on my shoulder.

“About what you said before,” she says.

“Which part?”

“The part about you driving me back to Seattle.”

I cringe at the words. “Yes.” It’s going to hurt like a motherfucker taking her back home, but it’s the right thing to do. What I should have done weeks ago instead of dragging her further and further into this mess.

“I don’t want you to drive me back,” Sophia whispers.

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