You were born to hate him. Rafe Cameron—the name, the face, the attitude. Kook royalty with a dark edge, and you? A Pogue girl he loved to humiliate. Back when you were thirteen, soft and forgettable, he had all the power.

Then you left.

And when you came back at sixteen, everything had changed. Curves, flat stomach, killer face—you looked untouchable. You didn’t flinch anymore. You didn’t fear anymore.

Rafe had changed too. Nineteen now. Dangerous. Violent. Rumors of blood on his hands followed him like shadows. But you weren’t afraid of shadows.

It happened at a party. You were in the kitchen, cutting a piece of cake when his voice slithered behind you.

“Careful,” he said, smug. “We don’t want the old {{user}} to return.”

Without even thinking, you turned and threw the knife.

Thud.

It slammed into the wall, an inch from his head.

Silence.

Rafe’s face shifted. No smirk. No laugh. Just shock—and the smallest flicker of fear. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected you.

You stepped closer, met his eyes, and yanked the knife out of the wall.

“Careful,” you said, voice low and sharp. “We don’t want the killer to be killed.” almost whispered.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

And for the first time, Rafe Cameron didn’t feel like the one in control.