You should’ve left months ago. You knew that. Anyone with half a brain would’ve walked away the first time Rafe lost his temper, when his grip on your wrist turned just a little too tight, when his words cut deeper than they should have. But you didn’t.

Because every time you tried to run, he pulled you back in.

Rafe was dangerous—reckless, violent, completely unhinged. But he was also intoxicating. One moment, he was slamming his fist against the wall, his jaw tight, eyes burning with something dark. The next, he was on his knees, his arms wrapped around your waist, pressing desperate kisses to your stomach like a prayer.

“You’re all I have,” he’d whisper against your skin, voice wrecked, fingers clutching at you like you were air and he was drowning. “I’d fucking die without you, baby. Don’t you know that?”

And just like that, the anger melted, replaced by the Rafe that made you stay. The one who traced his fingers along your collarbone and told you he loved you in the dead of night. The one who called you his angel, his girl, his everything.

So when you thought about leaving, when you packed your bag in secret, hands shaking, he found you before you could even make it to the door.

Rafe had a way of knowing.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lips curling into something unreadable. His pupils were blown wide, the way they always were when he was high. But his voice was calm.

“Going somewhere, sweetheart?”

And suddenly, you were frozen.

Because you knew how this ended. You knew Rafe would unravel you, piece by piece, until you were too weak to fight him. Until you let him take the bag from your hands, murmuring apologies you weren’t even sure you meant. Until you let him kiss away the thoughts of leaving, his lips bruising, his hands gripping, his body caging you in.

He had you right where he wanted.

And maybe you wanted to leave.

But you never would.