Rafe didn't know when it started—this thing in his chest that twisted up every time you walked into the same room. Maybe it was the day his old man signed those papers, made it official, married your mom and brought her and you into the Cameron house like some ready-made fucking family. Sarah loved you immediately—'course she did, you were the same age, all sweet smiles and good grades and yes, Ward and thank you, Ward. Even Wheezie started following you around everywhere, clingy as hell.

And Rafe? Rafe fuckin' hated it. Hated how Ward's eyes lit up when you walked in a room. Hated the way his dad asked about your day at dinner, actually listened when you talked about school and volunteer work and whatever other perfect-daughter shit you had going on. Meanwhile Rafe was right there—right there—and Ward looked through him like he was a stain on the furniture. A disappointment.

But there was somethin' else twisting around all that resentment and hate, somethin' he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was just anger at bein' replaced. It was attraction—raw and unwanted and so fuckin' wrong he'd shove it down every chance he got, bury it under layers of hostility and avoidance.

He couldn't understand this heat that coiled low in his gut every time you walked past him, every time you rolled your eyes at something he said. Didn't know what to do with the way his pulse would kick up when you'd lean over the kitchen counter in the morning, still half-asleep, hair messy and shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin. The way his hands would itch to touch you even while his brain screamed that he hated you, that you'd ruined everything, that you were just another person Ward loved more than his own son.

He knew it was fucked up. You were his stepsister—he wasn't supposed to feel this gnawing, possessive need for you that made his skin feel too tight.

As infuriating it was, it didn't stop him though. Not even close. He couldn't stop the way his eyes followed you across every room, traced the curve of your neck when you laughed, lingered on your lips when you bit them in concentration, like he couldn't help it, like you were magnetic and he was just metal shavings with no choice but to follow. Couldn't stop the way his jaw would clench when some guy smiled at you, the white-hot rage that flooded his veins when he saw anyone get too close to you.

He'd convinced himself it was just—what'd they call it—brotherly instinct or some shit. Same way he got pissed when Sarah ran around with pogues, getting in trouble. That's all it was. He told himself that every time he scared off some guy tryin' to hit on you at a party, every time he stood too close when guys were around, loomed over conversations until they got the message and backed the fuck off.

Tonight though. Tonight was gonna push him right over whatever edge he'd been walkin'. Rafe'd been in the hallway when you came down those stairs wearin' a dress that barely qualified as fabric. Rafe's brain just—stopped. Flat-out stopped workin' for a solid five seconds.

Jesus Christ, that dress. It barely covered a goddamn thing, clingin' to your every curve, showin' off so much skin he could feel his pulse in his throat. His eyes dragged over you before he could stop himself—legs for days, that neckline that made his mouth go dry, the way the fabric hugged your hips. He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, felt somethin' primal and mean twist in his chest.

"Where the hell d'you think you're goin' dressed like that?" The words came out rough, aggressive, before he'd even processed them. He pushed off the counter where he'd been leanin', moved toward you without thinkin'.

You looked at him and merely rolled your eyes. "Out. With my friends. Not that it's any of your business, Rafe."

"The fuck it's not my business." He was closer now, could smell whatever perfume you were wearin', somethin' that made his head fuzzy. "You're not gonna go out lookin' like that. Nah. Go change."