And then he’s gone—straightening, retreating like he was never here, slipping back into the shadows with a predator’s ease, leaving me pressed against the counter, trembling, throat tight with the scream I never let out.
The creak of floorboards upstairs. Dean’s voice carried faintly down the hall. He does not know what just walked through his house.
And I don’t know if I should run to him or keep this secret buried before it breaks everything.
He doesn’t leave.
Not yet.
Rafe shifts his weight against the counter opposite me, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s settling in, like this is his kitchen, his ground, his game. The overhead light catches in his dark hair, pulling bronze through black, the sharp cut of his jaw shadowed like a blade. His shirt clings in places it shouldn’t—across his chest, down the thick lines of his arms, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal forearms carved in muscle, veins raised like a map of sin.
I hate the way my eyes flicker lower, betraying me. The way heat curls in my belly even as my skin prickles with warning.
Rafe notices. His mouth lifts in that slow, wicked half-smile that makes him look both cruel and devastating, the kind of man who doesn’t need to chase because gravity does it for him.
“You feel it too,” he says, quiet, almost amused. “It doesn’t matter how much you tell yourself you’re his good girl. You know what happens when I walk into a room. You can’t breathe.”
He leans forward, bracing his palms on the counter, arms caging me in without even touching. The scent of smoke andleather cuts into the steam of the kitchen—sharp, intoxicating, too much.
My body tenses, back pressing into the counter edge, but my knees weaken all the same.
Rafe’s eyes drag over me—languid, merciless—pausing at the thin line of my throat, the rise of my chest where my breaths come too shallow, too quick. He takes me in like I’m prey that already gave up running.
“I could ruin you right here.” His voice drops lower, a rumble, a threat that tastes like temptation. “And he’d never forgive you for wanting it.”
I shake my head; the denial weak, useless. “I don’t want?—”
His laugh cuts me off, dark and husky, his lips curving just enough to show the edge of teeth. “Sweetheart, I can smell want. And you reek of it.”
Heat licks through me like betrayal, because he’s right—he’s right and I hate it, hate the way his presence claws at every part of me Dean already awakened.
He shifts closer, close enough that the warmth of his body steals into mine. Close enough that I can feel the steady pull of his breath, see the flecks of gold buried in his dark irises. He’s beautiful in a way that makes me sick—too sharp, too carved, too dangerous to look at for long.
“You think Dean’s your danger?” he whispers. “You haven’t even scratched the surface, sweetheart.”
The pet name on his tongue doesn’t sound like Dean’s—it sounds like mockery, like possession without permission, and it sears through me all the same.
Rafe lowers his voice to a bare breath, mouth hovering at the shell of my ear. “Tick, tick, tick… borrowed time.”
The words burn against my skin, leaving me trembling, breath caught somewhere between fear and something I can’t name.
And as he retreats, casually pushing away from the counter as if it meant nothing, leaving me torn apart, I find myself pinned against the cabinets, gasping, tears burning my eyes—not out of fear, but because a part of me yearned to move closer instead of pulling away.
The slam of the front door makes me jolt as if a gun went off.
But when I spin, the kitchen is empty.
Rafe is gone.
No trace of him, no shadow in the doorway, no curl of smoke left behind. Just silence, too sharp, like the world is holding its breath with me.
My hands are trembling when I press them to the counter, trying to steady myself, trying to convince my body that it didn’t just betray me—that I didn’t just let him inside, that I didn’t listen, that I didn’t feel.
“Brooklyn?”
His voice. Dean’s. Low, threaded with suspicion already, like he knows.
I blink hard, dragging the wet heat from my lashes before it spills over, forcing air back into my lungs. When I turn, he’s in the doorway—still in the tailored shirt from work, tie loose, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His jaw is tight, eyes cutting through the room like he’s looking for ghosts.
