You never stood out much. At least, that’s what you thought. Always quiet, always lingering on the edges of conversations, never the center of attention. You weren’t bold like Sarah or wild like the other girls at Figure Eight parties. You were soft, hesitant, unsure of yourself.

And yet, Rafe Cameron couldn’t stop watching you.

It started as nothing. Just stolen glances, catching you biting your lip in thought, tucking your hair behind your ear, shrinking into yourself when someone looked at you too long. But then—then it became something. Something dark, something desperate. He wanted to own you. Wanted you to be his, to never doubt yourself again because he’d be there, reminding you who you belonged to.

Tonight, at another party, it was worse than ever. You were sitting on the couch, looking uncomfortable, knees drawn up slightly, hands twisting in your lap. Some guy was talking to you—too close, too interested. And you, being as sweet as you were, didn’t push him away.

Rafe saw red.

Before he even realized it, he was there, towering over you both. His hand gripped the guy’s shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. “She’s not interested,” he said, voice low, deadly.

The guy scoffed. “Dude, chill—”

“I said,” Rafe leaned in, “she’s not interested.” His grip tightened. The guy got the message.

As he scurried off, you looked up at Rafe, wide-eyed. “Rafe, I—”

He didn’t let you finish. Instead, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you up, guiding you through the house until you were alone, away from the crowd. His hand still clutched yours, thumb rubbing over your pulse point like he was trying to memorize it.

“You have no idea, do you?” His voice was rough, his eyes dark as they roamed your face, your parted lips. “No idea what you do to me.”

Your breath hitched. “Rafe—”

“I see you, looking all shy, all innocent, and it drives me insane.” His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer.