She shudders, tears spilling over again. But this time, when her voice comes, it’s cracked, desperate.
“Dean…” Her breath breaks. “I still want you. God help me, I still?—”
I crush my mouth against hers, swallowing the confession before she can take it back. It isn’t soft. It’s bruising, claiming, a kiss that tastes of salt and ruin.
Her hands claw up into my hair, pulling me closer, answering me in the only language that matters.
When I finally break from her lips, I don’t let her breathe before I speak again.
“You belong to me, Brooklyn,” I growl, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged. “Say it. Right here. Right now.”
Her eyes squeeze shut. She fights herself for one long, trembling second—then the words tear free, small and broken, but real.
“I belong to you.”
The world stops. My chest collapses with relief so violent it feels like pain.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I let her see it. The truth. The rawness. The way she’s carved me open and left me bleeding in her hands.
The Rug Pulled
For the first time in weeks, I don’t wake up afraid.
The sheets still smell like Dean—clean linen tangled with smoke and the faintest trace of whiskey. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache, but it’s a good ache, the kind that makes me want to curl into the warmth he left behind and stay there forever.
The house is quiet, too quiet, sunlight spilling pale across the floorboards. Dean had slipped out earlier, murmuring something about handling business, and for once, I didn’t argue. For once, I believed him when he said I was safe here.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen, hair messy, one of his shirts hanging off my shoulders, too big and smelling too much like him. The counter is clean. There were no shadows lurking in the corners. No ghosts clawing at my chest. Just stillness. Just peace.
I pour myself coffee, fingers trembling not from fear but from the strange weightlessness of calm. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Me—laughing in Dean’s house. Me—thinking maybe, just maybe, I could live like this.
The knock comes softly, almost polite.
For a moment I think it’s Dean, forgetting his keys. I don’t even hesitate—I go to the door, mug still warm in my hand, heart lifting stupidly at the thought of him.
But it isn’t Dean.
It’s him.
Rafe leans against the doorframe like he owns it, like he’s been waiting for me all morning, a lazy smirk pulling at his mouth. His shirt is black, sleeves rolled to the elbow, veins taut over his forearms, tattoos crawling up beneath the fabric. He looks like sin dressed up in Sunday best, dangerous in the way a snake is beautiful right before it strikes.
“Morning, sweetheart.” His voice is low, velvet-dipped venom. His eyes flicker down my body—his shirt, bare legs, Dean’s shirt—and his grin sharpens. “Borrowed clothes? Cute. But you and I both know they don’t make you his.”
The mug slips in my hand, hot coffee splattering against the floor, but I don’t feel the burn. I can’t move, can’t even breathe, because the way he looks at me isn’t casual. It’s a countdown.
“You’ve got no idea,” Rafe murmurs, leaning closer, breath brushing my cheek, “how little time you really have.”
And then—he pushes.
Hard.
The world tilts, the kitchen disappears, and I’m swallowed whole by his shadow.
Her pulse explodes, shoving blood into her ears, into her shaking hands as the mug crashes at their feet. The smell of coffee burns sharp, bitter, rising between them, but Rafe doesn’t flinch.
I shove at his chest. Hard. My palms slam against muscle, against heat, but he only rocks back an inch, like I’m nothing more than a breeze.
“Get out,” I spit, voice cracking. “Get the fuck out!”
