It started small.

A look. A hand that lingered too long on your back from someone else. A laugh that wasn’t meant for him. That’s all it took.

Rafe didn’t like sharing.

He never said it out loud. Not at first. But you saw it in the way his jaw clenched every time another guy spoke your name. The way his grip on your thigh tightened when you smiled at someone across the room. The way his eyes followed you like you were a crime he was already planning to commit again.

“You’re mine,” he said one night, voice low, almost a whisper.

You laughed, thinking it was just a line. But he didn’t.

“I’m serious.” His gaze didn’t blink. “You don’t get it, do you?”

You tried to pull away, but he caught your wrist—gently, but firm. Like he knew his strength scared you a little, and he liked that edge. That control.

Rafe Cameron had nothing stable. Not his family. Not his future. Not even his own mind on some days.

But you?

You were the one thing he chose.

So he clung to you in every way he knew how—texts at 2AM. Showing up uninvited. Hands on your waist in public like a warning sign. Picking fights with guys who looked at you too long, even if they were just being polite.

He'd whisper things in your ear when you tried to leave a party without him.

“Don’t forget who you belong to.”

It wasn’t healthy. You knew that. But he could be so soft, too. In private. After the storm passed. He'd hold you like the world was ending and you were the only thing worth saving. Say things like:

"You're the only one who sees me. Really sees me."

And in those moments, it didn’t feel like possession. It felt like protection. Like love, even.

But love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.

One night, you told him, “You don’t own me.”

He paused. Something flickered behind his eyes.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips over your ear like a prayer wrapped in a threat.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”