The sun had dipped low over Marrakech, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet, when you saw him.
Rafe Cameron.
He stood at the edge of the crowded square, sunglasses low on his nose, lips curled into a smirk that made your stomach twist. He hadn’t changed much—still dressed sharp, still radiating that dangerous charm.
“Miss me?” he called across the noise.
Rafe didn’t rush. He never did. He sauntered through the crowd like he owned the whole damn city. People moved for him, like they could feel the danger radiating off him.
When Rafe was only a few feet away, he spread his arms like he was welcoming family. “This is nice. Little Pogue reunion, plus my baby sister.” His eyes landed on you. “Didn’t think you’d trade me in for them.”
Something burned in your chest—anger, guilt, fear, all tangled. You took a step forward. “You don’t own me, Rafe.”
He chuckled, low and mocking.
The moment broke when a shout rang out behind you. Local men—three of them, broad-shouldered and armed—pushed through the crowd. They weren’t tourists, and they weren’t here for shopping.
John B cursed. “Smugglers.”
Pope looked around. “They must’ve tracked us from the market.”
You barely had time to react before Rafe tilted his head at the men, grinning like he’d been waiting for this. “See, that’s the thing about Morocco, sis. Everyone’s for sale. Guess who paid better?”
Your stomach dropped. Rafe hadn’t just followed you—he’d brought reinforcements.
The Pogues didn’t hesitate. shouting, “Run!” and the world exploded into chaos.
You bolted through the alleyways, the sound of boots pounding behind you, Rafe’s voice cutting through the shouts: “You can’t outrun family, Y/N!”
JJ grabbed your hand as the two of you sprinted, weaving through the narrow streets. “Don’t look back!” he yelled.
Too late—Rafe wasn’t running. He didn’t have to. He strolled behind the smugglers, confident they’d do his dirty work. He smiled like he already knew how this would end.
You scrambled up a ladder to the rooftops. Tiles clattered under your shoes, the city lights stretching endlessly below. Shouts echoed from the streets as the smugglers tried to keep up.
You reached the edge of a rooftop and froze. A drop yawned before you—too wide to jump, too high to survive if you fell. Panic surged.
“They’ve got us cornered,” Pope gasped.
Then, from below, Rafe’s voice floated up. Calm. Cruel. “End of the line, sis.”
You stared across the gap, heart hammering. Maybe Rafe was right. Maybe this was it.
But JJ’s hand found yours again. “You trust me?”
You nodded, even though every bone in your body screamed not to.
“Then jump.”
You leapt.
For one terrifying second, your stomach dropped, the air rushing past you, the ground threatening to rise up and end everything. Then JJ’s arm caught yours, dragging you safely onto the other side. You tumbled hard, but you were alive.
Behind you, the smugglers shouted in frustration, unable to make the jump.
But Rafe?
He just stood on the opposite rooftop, calm and collected, watching you catch your breath. He didn’t even try to cross.
Instead, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, voice carrying across the night: