The humid night air clings to your skin as you storm out of Rafe’s party, heels sinking into the gravel. Your pulse is racing—not from the alcohol, not from the heat, but from him. From the fight. From the way he looked at you like no matter how far you ran, you’d always end up right back here.

“{{user}}, don’t walk away from me.” His voice cuts through the bass thumping behind you.

You don’t stop. Not until his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you back.

“Let me go,” you grit out, struggling, but Rafe never lets go. His grip is firm, his blue eyes burning into yours.

“You think you can just fucking leave?” His voice is low, controlled—barely.

You twist, but he only pulls you closer, his breath hot against your skin. “You love this,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your arm. “You love me.”

You shake your head, a weak lie. He smirks, tilting your chin up, his lips too close.

“You’re mine,” he says.

And when he kisses you—hard, possessive—you don’t fight him.

You never do.