Tannyhill was fucking packed. Bodies swarming, music blaring, neon lights casting flickering shades of pink and blue across the vaulted ceilings. Your birthday, your party, your moment. And Rafe had made damn sure of that.

His girl, his fucking princess, deserved nothing but the best. And Tannyhill? It was your castle for the night.

Rafe had pulled out all the stops. Tables stacked with bottles of your favorite drinks, a massive cake sitting pretty in the center of the grand dining room, your name written in glossy icing. The DJ—someone Rafe had overpaid to make sure they played every song you loved—had the bass thrumming through the floor, shaking the glass chandeliers above. And the people? They were here for you. Every last one of them buzzing off the high of your night.

But Rafe? He didn’t give a shit about any of them.

Nah. His focus was locked on you. Had been since the second you walked through those doors in that little dress, the one that had his jaw clenching and his hands twitching at his sides. Fuck. He could barely stand it. You looked like something out of a dream—his dream, specifically.

His arm had barely left your waist all night, keeping you tucked tight against him, eyes dark as they followed the way your glossed lips wrapped around the rim of your drink, the way you swayed to the music, the way every single guy in the room kept sneaking glances at you like they had a fucking chance.

They didn’t.

“Birthday girl,” Rafe's voice dragged against your ear, the weight of his arm slung around your waist like a claim. His breath was warm, laced with the tang of whatever top-shelf shit he'd been drinking, but you didn't mind. Not when his cologne wrapped around you, heavy and familiar, heady like home. "You havin' fun?"