You shouldn’t be here.

The thought echoed in your mind, loud and persistent, as you stood in the shadowed corner of the figure-eight house, the soft hum of a party carrying from the backyard. Laughter, music, the clinking of drinks—all of it faded when you felt his eyes on you.

Rafe Cameron.

He wasn’t supposed to look at you like that—not with his arm slung lazily around his girlfriend just minutes ago, not with that dark, dangerous hunger clouding his eyes now.

But he did.

Your heart raced as he cornered you near the kitchen, the air between you thick and heavy. His hand found your wrist, rough fingers grazing your skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Rafe muttered, though there was no heat in his voice—just that damn pull, that magnetism you could never fight off.

You swallowed hard. “You texted me.”

His jaw tensed, blue eyes flickering with something that looked dangerously close to guilt before it was snuffed out by something darker. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

But you had. You always did.

“Rafe,” you whispered, the warning in your voice thin, fragile.

He stepped closer, the scent of him—salt, cologne, danger—filling the space. “She doesn’t matter. Not like you.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. Lies. You knew it. But God, it felt too good to hear.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he had every right. “Tell me to stop.”

You couldn’t.

Instead, your hands fisted in his shirt, and his lips crashed against yours—hungry, desperate, wrong in every possible way. But when Rafe pulled you deeper into the shadows, his name falling from your lips in a breathless whisper, you didn’t stop him.