The thing about Rafe Cameron was that he loved control. And I? I loved making him lose it.

We weren’t good for each other, but that never stopped us. He was a walking storm, all sharp edges and chaos, and I was the girl who danced in the rain. My friends told me I could do better. But none of it mattered.

Because when Rafe was mad, when his voice was sharp and his hands were shaking from whatever mix of anger and adrenaline was coursing through him, I didn’t feel scared. I didn’t even take it seriously.

I giggled.

Like right now.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Alison?” Rafe’s voice boomed through my bedroom, his ocean-blue eyes dark with rage. He had me pressed against the wall, his grip firm on my wrist—not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure I was listening. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.

I just smiled. “What, Rafe?” I asked, tilting my head like I was genuinely curious.

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You think this is funny?”

Kinda.

Not in a way that mocked him—never that. It was just that I couldn’t help it. The way he got so worked up over me, the way he let me crawl under his skin so easily—it was intoxicating.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I teased, my voice light, effortless, like I hadn’t just walked through the front door two hours late with a Pogue’s hoodie over my shoulders. It wasn’t even mine—I’d found it in Sarah’s car—but that didn’t matter.

Rafe had seen it. And now, here we were.

“You do this shit on purpose,” he accused, his free hand raking through his golden-brown hair, making it messier than usual. “You wanna see me lose my mind, huh? That’s it? You get off on this?”

I bit my lip to hold back another laugh, but it still slipped through.

“Rafe, relax,” I said softly, bringing my hands up to rest against his chest, my nails trailing lightly over the fabric of his shirt. I felt his body tense beneath my touch, his pulse hammering against my fingertips. “You’re so dramatic, baby.”