The heavy thrum of bass echoed faintly from the other rooms of Tannyhill, the dim lighting casting long shadows across Rafe Cameron’s sharp features. He leaned against the worn leather armchair, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—equal parts charm and danger. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and cologne, like he was masking something deeper than his latest indiscretion.

You sat across from him, arms crossed, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours with a heat that made it impossible to look away. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol dulling your senses or the way he made you feel like the only person in the room when it suited him, but something about the way he looked at you set your nerves on edge. You’d heard the stories—how his charm unraveled into something darker, sharper. You’d seen flashes of it—the anger simmering beneath the surface, his grip tightening just a little too much, his voice dropping to a low growl that was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

“You don’t trust me.” His voice was smooth, but the accusation barely hidden. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze unwavering. “I get it. Everyone’s always so quick to think the worst of me.”

There it was again—the wounded act that made you second-guess your instincts, that made you want to reach across and pull him out of whatever storm he’d been drowning in for years. But then you thought about how his fingers had curled into fists last week, the bruises fading on his knuckles, and how he’d refused to tell you why he’d come home so late.