The ropes dug into your wrists, the rough fabric burning against your skin as you struggled against them. The room was dimly lit, the stale scent of damp wood filling your lungs. You could hear the faint sound of waves crashing outside.

Trapped.

Fucking trapped.

And Rafe Cameron was sitting in the corner, watching you.

He looked… bored. Legs spread lazily, elbows resting on his knees, spinning his knife between his fingers like this was just another day in the life for him.

“Are you just gonna sit there?” you snapped, chest rising and falling, adrenaline buzzing in your veins.

Rafe smirked, leaning back. “What do you want me to do, Bunny? Untie you? Walk you out the front door?” He scoffed. “Be serious.”

Your jaw clenched. “You know this is fucked up, right?”

His smirk faltered, just for a second. His fingers tightened around the knife. “You think I wanted this?” he muttered, voice lower now, something dangerous laced in his tone.

You swallowed hard.

Because Rafe might’ve been part of this, but you could see it—this wasn’t sitting right with him. The way he kept glancing at the door. The way his jaw flexed when Carlos Singh’s men walked in, like he was forcing himself to play along.

He stood up slowly, stepping toward you, eyes locked on yours.

“If I get you out of here,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “you don’t say shit. You don’t ask questions. You don’t look back.”

Your breath hitched. “You’d do that?”

Rafe smirked, but this time, there was something softer behind it.

“I’d do a lot of things for you, Bunny.”

And then, just like that, he reached into his pocket—pulling out a knife.

And the ropes?

They were coming off.