The first time I saw Rafe Cameron, I was sixteen, and he was trouble wrapped in sun-kissed skin. Everyone knew it. I knew it. And I loved him anyway.

Five years later, nothing had changed—except maybe me. I wasn’t the naïve girl who thought she could fix him. I knew better. But that didn’t mean I could walk away.

Tonight, I was in his truck, fingers tangled in his as he sped down the dark Outer Banks roads, the scent of salt and gasoline thick in the air. His knuckles were bruised again. I didn’t ask why. I already knew it was bad.

“Rafe,” I said softly, squeezing his hand. He only tightened his grip.

“I handled it,” he muttered.

My stomach twisted. Handled it could mean anything—fists, threats, or worse. His father, Ward, had always fed the fire in Rafe’s chest instead of putting it out. Taught him power meant control. That violence was the answer. That love was something to own, not cherish.

I had spent five years trying to teach Rafe different.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.

His jaw clenched. “I do.”

We reached the house, his family’s mansion, but Rafe didn’t move to get out. He turned to me instead, blue eyes stormy and restless. “You still love me?”

My heart ached. He asked me this more than he should. Like he was waiting for the day I’d say no.

“Always,” I said.

His breath hitched. Then his lips were on mine—desperate, rough, and aching. Like I was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Maybe I was.

But loving Rafe Cameron was dangerous. And I wasn’t sure if, one day, it would destroy me too.