Music thumped against the walls of the coastal mansion, bass rattling windows and shaking the floorboards. The Halloween party looked like a riot waiting to happen — red strobe lights, fake fog, glitter-clad costumes and too many drunk egos in one place.

You hadn’t even meant to come. One hour, two drinks, no drama — that was the plan.

But the universe hated your plans.

You stood near the back patio, adjusting the lacy sleeves of your black-angel costume, when you saw him — your ex. Laughing, carefree, hands wrapped around some girl in a bunny costume. The same hands that once held you like you were his whole world. Your stomach twisted, and you hated that it still hurt.

You turned away fast, breath catching — and collided hard with someone.

A hand gripped your arm before you could fall.

“What’s the rush, angel?”

You didn’t need to look up to know the voice.

Rafe Cameron.

He towered over you — messy blond curls pushed back, sharp jawline dusted with fake blood, black shirt open just enough to be indecent. And the rest of his costume? A pair of dark horns and a tail.

A literal devil.

Ironic, really. Everybody in town already called him one.

His hand slid down your arm before he let go — slow enough that your skin burned from the ghost of his touch.

“Didn’t see you,” you muttered.

Rafe smirked, stepped closer. “You never do. Not until you need to.”

You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t back off — if anything, he invaded your space more, like he knew he was allowed to.

“Relax,” he murmured, eyes dragging down your costume like he was memorizing it. “I’m not here to tempt you into sin.”

Then he leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear.

“…unless you ask.”

God, he was dangerous. And you were stupid for liking it.

Before you could reply, something shifted in his expression. His gaze lifted past you — straight to your ex, the bunny girl still wrapped around him. Rafe’s jaw clenched. His tongue pressed into his cheek.

“That why you ran?” he asked, voice low. Not mocking — just too observant.

You said nothing, but silence was an answer.

He took the cup out of your hand and set it down. Then he tilted your chin gently — forcing your eyes off the past and onto him.

“If he could let you go,” Rafe said, words slow, sharp, “he was never the smart one.”

And then — with the kind of confidence that didn’t need permission — he slid his hand to the small of your back and pulled you close enough that anyone watching would feel the message.

Your ex saw.

He froze.

Rafe smirked — wicked, satisfied, exactly like the devil he was dressed as.

“There we go,” he whispered at your ear. “Now he remembers what he lost.”

It should’ve been about revenge. It wasn’t. Not with the way Rafe was looking at you — like he’d waited all night for you, maybe longer.

“Why are you doing this?” you breathed.

Rafe leaned down, lips brushing your jaw like a secret.

“Because,” he said, “I’ve been waiting for a reason to get your attention.”

The red lights strobed again, and for a split second you realized something terrifying:

Halloween wasn’t the scary part.

Rafe Cameron was.

And you weren’t sure you cared.