The woods are silent tonight. Too silent. Like even the wind knows what’s out here, what’s lurking in the dark.

You shouldn’t be out here. You know that.

Your father’s voice still rings in your ears, sharp and unwavering—Rafe Cameron is a killer. No hesitation. No mercy. He made it clear: if you see him, you turn him in. No questions. No second chances.

But now, standing in the shadows with your heart pounding, you’re not so sure.

A twig snaps. You spin around, but you’re not fast enough. A hand grips your arm, yanks you back, and suddenly you’re against a tree, the air forced from your lungs.

Rafe stares down at you.

The moonlight cuts across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, the bruises, the dried blood at his temple. His breath is heavy, uneven, like he’s been running for miles.

And maybe he has.

His grip tightens just for a second before he exhales sharply and lets go. “Didn’t expect to see you out here,” he mutters, stepping back just enough to let you breathe.

You lift your chin, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Didn’t expect you to still be on the island.”

That makes him smirk—just barely. “Guess we’re both full of bad ideas.”

Your stomach twists. You should call for help. You should do something. But all you do is stare.

This is the boy who put a bullet in the sheriff’s back. The boy your father is hunting down like an animal. He’s reckless, dangerous, the very definition of everything you run away from.

So why don’t you?