The day had started soft. Ocean breeze on skin, my fingers tangled in Rafe’s for a moment that felt almost normal. He’d been quiet at the beach, sunglasses hiding eyes I knew too well. But his grip told me everything—tight, possessive, like he was already holding in something dark.

And then Topper came over.

It was harmless. A casual chat, a joke about the water being too cold, sand sticking to my sunscreen. I laughed. Not at him—just with him. I didn’t even look at Rafe. Maybe that was the problem.

Because by the time we were back home, silence hung thick between us.

He slammed the front door shut like punctuation.

“You gonna pretend you didn’t see it?” he spat. His voice was low, but dangerous. My stomach tightened.

“See what?” I asked, careful, knowing this path well.

“The way he fucking looked at you.” His eyes, now visible, were storm-cloud blue and wild. “Like he could’ve undressed you right there. And you just stood there, smiling like you liked it.”

I opened my mouth, closed it. “It was Topper, Rafe. He wasn’t flirting. We were just—”

“Don’t bullshit me.” He stepped closer. His presence swallowed the room. “You liked it, didn’t you? The attention. The way he looked at you like you were free.”

The way he said that last word—free—hit somewhere deep.

“I’m not your prisoner.” My voice trembled, not with fear, but something else. A mix of defiance and desire.

He looked at me like he didn’t know whether to scream or kiss me. So he did both, without sound. His lips crashed into mine, hands on my face like he was trying to erase Topper’s gaze from my skin.

This was us. Twisted, toxic, addictive. Apologies never existed. Only touch. Only this ritual of fire we kept setting ourselves on.

He tore at my clothes with desperation, not romance. His grip said mine with every move. His mouth demanded I forget anyone else’s eyes, anyone else’s voice. He had me on the bed before I could process it, his weight grounding me, overwhelming and intoxicating.

He didn’t say “I love you.” He said it in other ways. In the way he pulled my hair back so he could see my face when I said his name. In the bruises he left trailing down my thighs. In the way he pushed me to the edge like he wanted to ruin me and worship me all at once.

When it was over, we lay in silence—both of us breathless, sweat clinging to skin, hearts racing in unison but never in peace.

And then he shifted. Slow, deliberate. His mouth touched my back, soft, almost apologetic. I felt the pressure of lips, then teeth. Gentle at first, then harder. I flinched.

“Rafe?” I whispered, voice hoarse.

He didn’t stop. Kiss after kiss. Bite after bite. Over and over in one place. I realized too late what he was doing.

When he pulled away, he ran his fingers over my skin, satisfied. Possessive. Proud.

“There,” he said quietly. “Now they’ll know. Now you know.”

Later, I stood in the mirror.

Red, raw marks decorated my back—forming one unmistakable letter: R.

For Rafe. For rage. For ruined.

And somehow, the sickest part of me liked it.

Because I wasn’t free. Not really. I was his. Always had been.

And he made sure the whole damn world knew it.