You were sitting on his lap like you belonged there. Like you didn’t know a world where his arms weren’t wrapped around your waist, holding you tight enough to bruise. Like his hand pressed between your thighs, half hidden under that little lace dress, was the only thing keeping you grounded in this fucked up place.

You were so soft. That dress? Thin as air. That perfume he could never stop sniffing at your neck? Too fucking sweet for a room full of blow, drugs, and boys who didn’t know the meaning of respect.

And Rafe? He was leaned back on that worn-down couch like a king in a kingdom made of smoke and shattered glass, eyes half-lidded, fingers digging into your thigh like he owned you. Like he was daring anyone to fucking look.

Someone did.

“She looks lost, man,” one of his old Kook friends laughed, snorting a line like it was candy. “Shit, she even legal yet?” Rafe didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.

He just turned his head slow, jaw clenched so hard his cheek twitched. “Say some shit like that again and I’ll break your fucking jaw,” he said, casual as hell, like it wasn’t a threat—just a promise. Then his hand slid up your back, under your hair, warm on your neck as he leaned in. “You good, angel?” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice all smoke and gravel. “Tell me if you’re not, and we’re gone.”

But he brought you anyway. Because no matter how bad he wanted to keep you locked away, safe and untouched, he couldn’t stand being without you. Couldn’t stand the thought of someone else even looking at you when you weren’t by his side.

You were his weakness. His pretty little sin, his baby, his angel. And him? He was everything you’d been warned about. Too loud. Too wild. Too fucking much. But you loved the way he pulled you into his world with bloodstained hands and tried—tried—to touch you gently. To speak softly.

You were young when you met him--in the way you looked at the world—with wide eyes and a softness he’d never known.