You weren’t supposed to be here.

The bass pulsed through your veins, neon lights flickering across the haze. Your friends dragged you into this night out, promising “just fun,” but the second your eyes locked with his across the club, everything changed.

Rafe Cameron.

Leaning back in a velvet booth like he owned the place, cigarette in hand, eyes locked on you. You tried to ignore him. You danced, drank, laughed—but his gaze stayed, sharp and unreadable.

Then, a dancer pulled you up on stage, your friends cheering like it was harmless fun. You played along… until you saw him move.

Rafe stood, the crowd parting like they knew better. He stepped to the stage’s edge, looking up at you.

“Get down,” he said. Calm. Dangerous.

“Rafe—”

“Now.”

You hopped off, and he grabbed your wrist—not rough, but tight, possessive. He dragged you through the crowd, past the dancers, out the back door into the humid night.

“Let go,” you snapped, yanking away.

He turned, jaw clenched. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Having fun. Not everything’s about you.”

He stepped closer, eyes wild. “You don’t belong in there.”

“Neither do you,” you shot back.

“I’m not the one dancing for strangers.”

Your brow raised. “Jealous?”

He laughed, low and bitter. “You like pushing me, huh?”

“Only when I win.”

That was all it took.

He had you against the wall before you could blink, mouth on yours, hands gripping your waist with barely controlled fury. The kiss was fire—angry, desperate, addictive. When he pulled back, both of you were breathless.

“You do that again,” he growled, voice hot against your skin, “and I’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.”

You met his gaze, lips brushing his. “Then remind me.”

And just like that, the game started all over again.