The first sign that something was wrong was the blood on Rafe’s hands.

Dark, sticky, still fresh—it clung to his knuckles, smeared across the back of his hand like war paint. You barely had time to register it before he was standing in front of you.

“Rafe,” you whispered, throat dry. “What did you do?”

He let out a sharp breath, running a trembling hand through his already-messy hair, streaking red through the blonde. “He touched you.”

Your stomach dropped. “Who?”

Rafe scoffed, like the answer should be obvious. Like it wasn’t completely insane that you even had to ask. “That guy,” he muttered, voice dangerously low. “At the bar. Couldn't keep his fucking hands to himself.”

Oh God. You knew exactly who he was talking about. Some random had leaned a little too close, made some flirty comment that you’d brushed off. It hadn’t even crossed your mind to tell Rafe about it—because why would it? It was nothing.

But to Rafe? It wasn’t nothing. It was a challenge. A threat.

You swallowed hard. “Rafe. Where is he?”

Silence. His jaw twitched.

“Rafe,” you pressed, voice barely above a whisper. “What did you do?”

He didn’t answer, just looked at you, his expression shifting into something softer, almost desperate. “I did it for you.”

Your breath caught.

“I had to,” he continued, like he needed you to understand. Like he needed you to say it was okay. “He touched you, baby. He thought he could have you. He thought he could take you from me.” His hands found your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, his touch so gentle it was almost jarring considering what you now knew.

A shiver ran down your spine.

Rafe wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t apologizing. He was proud of what he’d done.

And God help you, but the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing that mattered, the only thing he’d ever fight for, kill for—made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

“Tell me you understand,” he pleaded, pressing his forehead to yours. “Tell me you see why I did it.”