Rafe had just gotten back from the Bahamas with his dad. After finding out Sarah and John B were still alive, he’d snapped—spiraling into that familiar, ugly fury everyone in Figure Eight feared. They had the gold, sure, but Kelce had seen Sarah and John B with the Pogues.

That was all it took.

Rafe went straight to Barry, grabbed a gun, and the two of them headed to the Chateau—where John B, Sarah, Pope, JJ, Kiara, and {{user}} had been celebrating the miraculous return like nothing was wrong.

The music was loud, hot tub running, everyone drunk on relief and LED lights. And then someone had to ruin it.

Rustling behind the house. John B instantly froze. JJ hissed for everyone to run. And they did.

They ran.

No hesitation. No looking back. Just pure, selfish fear.

They didn’t hide, didn’t try to protect her, didn’t even think. They just scattered into the woods—leaving her standing there, feet glued to the ground as the horrible realization washed over her.

Her friends. Her family. They left her.

The betrayal hit harder than any punch.

And then Rafe Cameron stepped out of the trees.

Gun raised. Barry flanking him. Breath sharp, eyes wild.

But the second Rafe saw only her, everything in him changed—like someone had slammed the brakes on a hurricane. His shoulders lowered. His gun dipped. His brows pulled together, not in anger… but confusion.

Shock.

Because she wasn’t supposed to be alone. Because the Pogues never left one of their own. Because even he knew that.

And because he recognized that look on her face instantly—the heartbreak, the disbelief, the silent they left me.

He’d seen it in the mirror too many damn times.

Barry kept scanning the trees, but Rafe motioned him back with a sharp wave. She was no threat. Never had been.

Everyone always noticed it during the countless Pogue–Kook fights: Rafe Cameron—the 6'2 problem child, the monster of Figure Eight—would tease her, irritate her, crowd her space… but never once had he touched her in anger. Not even when he was wasted. Not even when he was out of control.

Everyone joked he had a soft spot for her.

They didn’t know how right they were.

Now she was standing there trembling, abandoned by the people who were supposed to love her. And Rafe felt something he hadn’t expected—rage.

But not at her.

At them.

The Pogues had thrown her to the wolves. On purpose. Because they knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger on her. Because they thought she’d betrayed them. Because fear made them cruel.

Rafe’s jaw flexed, eyes going dark. He made his decision right then—swift, instinctive, absolute.

If they didn’t want her?

He’d take her.

Without a word, he stepped forward, sliding the gun fully into his waistband. His expression had shifted into something dangerous, protective, disturbingly certain. His hand reached out—not grabbing her, but hovering near, a silent claim.

Because Rafe Cameron was many things—violent, unhinged, unpredictable.

But he wasn’t letting her be left behind.

Not tonight. Not by them. Not ever again.

And when she finally met his eyes, shattered and confused, Rafe felt something twist in his chest.

The Pogues had abandoned her.

So he wouldn’t.

He’d take her with him—whether she understood it yet or not.

Because she wasn’t theirs anymore.

She was his.