Rafe Cameron adored you in ways that should’ve scared you. It wasn’t love—at least not the kind that belonged in sunlight or whispered promises. No, Rafe’s love was dark, violent. It was possession wrapped in obsession. A beautiful, sick devotion that felt like drowning in silk.

To him, you weren’t just a person. You were a prize. Something he had to win. No—claim. Something to fight for, bleed for, ruin himself for. You were his golden endgame, even if it destroyed him.

People called him crazy. Said he was off the deep end. Said he watched you too closely, spoke about you too often, wanted you too much.

They weren’t wrong.

But you? You were more than just beautiful. You were ethereal—untouchable. Like something dreamt up by gods and carved into human skin. You were light, and he was all shadows. You were what he could never be.

And maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop. Why he wouldn’t stop.

You weren’t his. And he sure as hell wasn’t yours. But so what?

That only made the craving worse. That only made him need you harder.

The day had been deceptively simple. Sunshine, grilled food, laughter that didn’t quite reach the pit of your stomach. Something had felt off. Then the storm came—quick, sharp. And with it, a fight.

Rafe and Topper. Fists and blood on wet grass. You didn’t catch the whole thing, just the aftermath—the split lip, the wild eyes, the rain-soaked shirt clinging to his chest.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Told yourself not to care.

But now you were sitting in your room, the storm still lashing against your window. Thunder distant. And that knock—soft, like hesitation wrapped in regret—barely rose above the rain.

You knew who it was. You always knew.

You opened the window, and there he was—Rafe, dripping wet and swaying slightly. Drunk, but not just on alcohol. On you. On this strange addiction he had for the idea of you.

He didn’t speak when he stepped inside. Just stood there, watching you from the shadows of your room. His usual cigarette was missing. Instead, he stared like a man on the verge of something reckless. Something final.

You didn’t say anything either. Just sat down on the bed, letting silence stretch and curl between you.

Then he moved. Slowly. Like he didn’t trust his legs. He pushed off the windowsill, stumbled forward, and sank to his knees in front of you.

His hands came to rest on the sides of your thighs—warm, trembling slightly—and his face buried itself between your knees like he wanted to disappear into you. Escape inside your skin.

“Give me a chance,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw. “I’m begging you.”

A kiss. Soft. Right on your knee. Intimate in a way that felt dangerously tender coming from someone like him.

Then he looked up at you. And you felt it—something deep and unspoken flickering in his eyes. Hunger, desperation, love twisted into obsession.

“I’ll do anything for you,” he said. “Say the word. Just say it.”

His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes. You could feel the electricity humming in the air between your bodies.

“I’d kill for you,” he added.

Not die. Kill.

And somehow that felt more real. More honest. Something that sank its claws down your spine and made you shiver.

Because the way he said it, you believed him.

And maybe, just maybe… you didn’t hate the sound of it.