Rafe hated you.

Not the casual, roll-his-eyes kind of hate he threw at Pogues on the daily. No—this was deeper. Sharper. Like he’d set you on fire just to watch you turn to ash, and he’d grin while you burned. You weren’t sure when it started, but somewhere along the line, you became the person who made him understand what real hate could feel like.

And you felt it back, in your own way. You knew how cruel he could be. You’d been on the receiving end enough times—his harsh words flung like knives, his temper exploding in things as small as a ball aimed at your head just for existing in his line of sight. That was Rafe Cameron. That was what you expected.

But kidnapping?

That was new. Well… maybe not. Not really. Not from him.

Now you sat in the cellar, the damp air pressing against your skin, the walls blank and cold. The only light came from a small window too high to reach. Your wrists ached from the ropes digging into your skin. The blood on your forehead had dried sticky and hot, sliding down the side of your face before it stopped.

The reason you were here? Simple. You knew. You knew he killed Sheriff Peterkin. You told him you’d go to the cops—that you had to—and then the next second, there was nothing but a blow to your head and the sound of your body hitting the ground.

Now, all you could do was wait.

Footsteps echoed closer, heavy and deliberate. Your stomach dropped. You didn’t even need to see his face—you knew it was him. The lock rattled. The door groaned open.

Rafe stood in the doorway, shadows cutting across his face, his smirk sharp enough to slice. He looked at you like you were something he already owned. Something he had every right to break.

“You just couldn’t shut up, could you?” His voice curled around the room like smoke. “Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Your chest rose too fast, but you forced your eyes to meet his. Forced yourself not to shrink away when he crouched in front of you, when his fingers gripped your jaw tight enough to bruise. His thumb dragged across the cut on your forehead, pressing until you winced. The satisfaction in his eyes deepened.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he murmured. His grin widened. “Good. Maybe you’ll learn.”

For a moment, the silence between you was unbearable. Your breath, his, the pounding of your own heart.

And in that silence, you realized Rafe didn’t just want you afraid—he wanted you ruined.