The first time Rafe hit you, it wasn’t hard. A slap, just enough to make you stop arguing. Your breath caught as you touched your cheek, but before you could step away, he grabbed your wrist. His grip was firm, his eyes dark.

“Don’t make me do that again,” he warned, voice low. That night, he kissed the same spot he struck, his lips soft, almost apologetic.

“He hit me, but it felt like a kiss,” you told yourself, convincing yourself it meant he loved you.

Rafe’s anger was quick, sharp, and always about control. “Why do you make me do this?” he snapped, his fingers tight around your arm.

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t fight him.

He hurt me but it felt like true love

he touched your face, his thumb brushing your lip. “You’re mine,” he whispered. And you nodded, because you wanted to believe him.

“You’re not leaving me,” he said, and you knew he meant it.

Later, when the house was quiet, you traced the bruises on your skin. The pain was fading, but the way Rafe looked at you, the way he held you after—those moments lingered.

Loving him was never enough. But leaving him? That felt impossible. you needed all that ultraviolence. even if that ment being with rafe cameron