A neon-lit nightclub on the Outer Banks. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the bass from the speakers vibrates through the floor. The song Maneater by Nelly Furtado blares through the speakers, setting the perfect scene for chaos and temptation.

You’re standing near the bar, ice clinking in your glass as you take a slow sip. The atmosphere is electric—sweaty bodies moving, flashing lights cutting through the dark. And then, you feel it. A gaze burning into you from across the room.

Rafe Cameron.

He’s leaning against the wall, drink in hand, that signature smirk playing on his lips. His sharp blue eyes flick over you, lingering, sizing you up like a challenge. He’s trouble, and you know it. But that’s exactly why you don’t look away.

He pushes off the wall, weaving through the crowd with the kind of effortless arrogance that only someone like him can pull off. The song shifts into the chorus—*She only comes out at night…—*as he steps into your space, close enough that you catch the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne.

“You know,” he drawls, voice low enough that only you can hear over the music. “You play this game well.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “I don’t play games, Rafe.”

He chuckles, tilting his head as if debating whether to believe you. “Nah, see… I think you do.” He takes a sip of his drink, eyes still locked on you. “And I think you’re just waiting for someone who can keep up.”

The air between you is charged—dangerous, intoxicating. The beat of the song pulses through your veins as you lean in slightly, just to test him.

“You think that’s you?”

Rafe’s smirk deepens, his free hand brushing lightly against your waist as he leans in, lips barely ghosting over your ear.

“I don’t think, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I know.”

The challenge is set. The night is young. And the game? It’s only just begun.