You wouldn’t have gone to Rafe if you weren’t desperate for the safety he gives you.

The throbbing of your cheekbone is painful, but it doesn’t compare to the way he makes your heart thump. You and Rafe made a deal, friends with benefits, nothing more. And you hate yourself for falling into the stereotypical cliche of falling first.

You’re perched on the countertop, him towering over you as he stands between your legs. Anti-septic wipes sit on the side, blood seeped into them from the now dried up cut on your lip. He doesn’t realise his free hand, that’s not tending to the violet and black mark on your face, is stroking your thigh soothingly.

It’s just instinct.

“You’re staying here.” He says, not a request, not a suggestion, but a command. He refuses to let you return to where you live when your true home is with him — not that he’d ever admit that.

“You don’t have to do that, Rafe.”

“You think I’d turn you away?” He scoffs, but his thumb grazing beneath the bruise is gentle. “I may have done bad things, but I’m not a monster.”

Not a monster, yet there’s apart of him that yearns to hurt your father back tenfold after what he’s done to you.