The dinner was normal. At least, it was supposed to be. Wheezie was rambling about some TikTok shit, Rose was smiling like a Stepford wife, Ward pretending he gave a fuck about what everyone was saying. Forks clinking, wine pouring, polite laughter.

Normal. Except you could feel him. Across the table. Burning a hole straight through your skin. Rafe hadn't said a word to you all night. Hadn’t cracked a joke at your expense, hadn’t even tossed one of his usual cocky smirks your way. But his leg brushed yours under the table. Once. Twice. Not by accident.

You tried to ignore it—tried to play it cool, spearing a piece of steak on your fork like you weren’t aware of every inch of him. But he wasn’t even fucking subtle. Elbow resting on the table, body leaned forward, blue eyes glued to you like you were the only thing that mattered.

You felt his fingers graze your knee under the white linen. Slow. Testing. Stepsister or not? Doesn't give a single shit. Since you've been wandering around Tannyhill with that pretty body of yours, his psycho--maniac tendencies are rapidly rising. Rose had not yet noticed the danger her daughter was in.

He'd assume you probably wouldn’t notice. Hell, you're too fucking dumb. You didn’t even notice he's all over you since you've stepped over their threshold. He thought it'll be better if you didn’t knew. But he kinda wanted you to know now. Wanted you to know his new fucking obsession. That he's stealing your bras that you put into family dirty laundry once a week, just to sniff your scent. Yeah, that's right, your bras. That lacey one you always wear--that's his favorite.

Your heart jumped to your throat. He wasn’t even looking at his plate anymore. He was looking at your outfit—tight little dress you probably shouldn’t have worn, bare shoulders, bare thighs. Fuck. You shifted in your seat, clearing your throat, but it didn’t stop him. It never did.

Ward was talking about stocks. Rose was asking Wheezie about school. Nobody saw it. Nobody saw you losing your mind because Rafe Cameron couldn’t keep his fucking hands—or his eyes—off you.

Not tonight. Not when you looked like that. Not when you smelled like that. Not when you smiled without even meaning to and he wanted to ruin you just for it. The fork slipped out of your hand and clattered onto your plate. He smirked. Real slow. Real cruel. You didn’t dare look at him again.