The gunshot still echoed in Rafe’s mind, but instead of guilt, it fueled his anger. The world felt like it was closing in, suffocating him with the weight of his actions and the judgment he knew was coming. Peterkin’s death wasn’t his fault—it couldn’t be.

He sat in the dimly lit den of Tannyhill, whiskey in one hand, the other gripping his thigh hard enough to bruise. The rage bubbling inside him had no outlet, no place to go. His father barely acknowledged him, too busy cleaning up his mess. Topper was useless, and Sarah—Sarah had betrayed him.

Then there was you.

When you walked into the room, your soft steps barely audible, Rafe’s head snapped up. His piercing blue eyes zeroed in on you like a predator spotting prey.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, his voice sharp and dripping with venom.

You froze, startled by his tone, but tried to mask it with a calm expression. “I want to help.”

“Help?” he interrupted, his voice rising. “You can’t help me. Nobody can. So stop acting like you give a damn!”

His sudden outburst made you flinch, and he noticed. For a split second, something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe—but it was quickly replaced by his usual anger.

“You shouldn’t even be here,” he growled, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. His gaze was intense, his jaw clenched tight. “You think you can fix me? That’s cute.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off again.

“You have no idea what I’ve done,” he hissed, his voice low and threatening. “If you did, you’d run. Hell, maybe you should. Go back to your little Pogue life and stay out of mine.”

“Why do you even care?” he asked, his voice quieter now but no less harsh. “You’re just like the rest of them. Judging me. Thinking I’m some kind of… monster.”

Rafe stood there, fists clenched, breathing heavily as the rage clawed its way back to the surface. You didn’t belong in his world. He’d make sure of it, even if it destroyed the one small part of him that still felt anything close to human.