They say the devil hides in the details. With Rafe Cameron, he hides in the way he straightens his tie before ruining your life. In the way he says your name like a prayer—and a warning.

He doesn’t kick the door down. He knocks, smiling, and by the time you open it, you’ve already invited him in. Rafe’s love isn’t warm; it’s fire in a crystal glass. It burns slow, and it burns all the way down.

He watches you the way wolves watch the tree line—patient, silent, waiting for you to take one wrong step. When you do, he won’t pounce. No—he’ll stroll, slow and deliberate, until you realize you’ve been cornered.

He can be sweet. Sickeningly sweet. That’s the hook. That’s how he makes you think maybe the horns are a trick of the light. But the truth? The devil doesn’t need horns when he has a smile like that.

Right now, he’s in front of me, backlit by the dim glow of the kitchen. His hands are in his pockets, but it feels like they’re already around my throat.

“You’ve been keeping secrets, baby.” It’s almost a whisper, smooth enough to feel like silk, sharp enough to draw blood. He steps forward, shadows moving with him, and I swear the air tastes like smoke.

“I let you wander,” he says, “but you forgot—you wander in my world.” His fingertips graze my cheek, warm but heavy, like ownership itself. “I’m not the man you run from, baby. I’m the one you run back to.”

The devil doesn’t need to raise his voice. He just needs you to believe there’s no heaven without him.