The night at the Chateau was the kind you lived for—JJ passing a bottle around, Pope half-listening, John B practically asleep on the couch. Just you, your friends, and the freedom of being a Pogue.

“I’m grabbing another beer,” you muttered, pushing off the porch. No one looked up.

Behind the house, the cooler sat in the dirt. You cracked open the lid, enjoying the quiet—until you felt it.

That creeping, suffocating feeling of being watched.

Then—his voice.

“You really shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned. Rafe Cameron.

He stood just outside the shadows, blue eyes locked onto you. He wasn’t drunk—not loud or reckless. No, this was worse. He was calm. Controlled. And he was blocking your way back.

“What the hell are you doing here, Cameron?” you snapped, masking your unease. “Lose your way back to Figure Eight?”

His lip curled. “Funny.” But his voice was anything but amused.

You glanced past him. Could you run? Would he stop you? If you screamed, would the others hear?

He took a step closer. “You Pogues think you own this island,” he muttered. “Like you belong here.”

Your grip on the beer can tightened. “We do belong here.”

Rafe laughed—cold, empty. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.”

Another step. Too close. His fingers twitched at his side, like he was holding something back.

“You think John B’s little house makes you untouchable?” His voice was low, almost thoughtful. “Like I won’t do something just because your friends are twenty feet away?”

Your breath caught.

Because the way he said it?

You weren’t sure if it was a threat.

Or a promise.