Being Rafe Cameron’s wife meant a lot of things. It meant luxury, it meant devotion, but most of all, it meant dealing with the reckless, stubborn man who somehow loved you more than he loved himself.

But tonight, it meant silence.

The bathroom was still thick with steam from your shower as you stood in front of the vanity, combing through your damp hair, your jaw tight with frustration. The muffled sounds of the ocean beyond the house did nothing to soothe you—not after what he’d done.

You could still see it. The blood on his knuckles, the wild look in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell like he was still ready to throw another punch. He thought he was being a hero, that he was protecting you.

But all you saw was recklessness.

And you were done with it.

The door creaked open behind you, followed by the soft shuffle of feet against the tile. You met his reflection in the mirror, your expression unreadable, while his was filled with nothing but remorse.

“Baby,” he started, voice careful, coaxing.

You ignored him, reaching for the lotion on the counter.

“Come on, don’t do this.” He took another step forward, like he wanted to touch you but knew better. “You’re mad, I get it. But talk to me. Please.”

You scoffed, finally turning to face him. “Talk to you? Rafe, you beat the shit out of someone tonight. You want me to talk about that?”

His lips pressed together, his hands flexing at his sides. “He was asking for it.”

“Did you even think before throwing that punch? Before making a scene?”

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, until—without warning—Rafe dropped down.

To his knees.

Your breath hitched as he settled there in front of you, his hands hesitantly finding your thighs, his touch soft, worshipful.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice raw, desperate. “I hate when you’re mad at me. Just—please, baby. Look at me.”

You did. And damn him, because even now, even after all of this, his big blue eyes and pleading voice made it impossible to stay as cold as you wanted to.