His shirt is stained in red. Not just splatters—deep, soaking patches, the kind that don’t come out no matter how hard you scrub. His hands tremble as he clutches a single rose, its petals crushed at the edges, like he forgot he was holding it. There’s a streak of blood on his cheek, smeared across his jaw. His breath is uneven.

You don’t move at first. Then, instinctively, you take a step back. Just an inch. Barely enough to be noticeable. But he notices.

His jaw clenches, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his blue eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is low, rough, like he’s holding something back.

Like he doesn’t regret what he did.

Like he did it for you.

Your heart pounds as you stare at him, at the blood on his hands, at the rose wilting between his fingers. How else are you supposed to look at him? He isn’t just Rafe Cameron anymore. He’s something else now—something dangerous, something raw.

What did you do, Rafe? The words are on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t ask. Because deep down, you already know. And worse—you don’t know if it makes you want to run.

Or if it makes you want to stay.