The air was thick with tension as you stood just behind Rafe, your heart pounding in your chest. The room felt too quiet — the kind of quiet that comes right before something dangerous. Ward’s voice cut through it, cold and sharp.

“You brought her here?” he said, his gaze searing straight through Rafe. “Into this house? Are you out of your damn mind, son?”

Rafe didn’t move. His jaw clenched tight as he stepped slightly in front of you, protective, defiant.

“She’s with me,” he said, voice steady. “You don’t get to tell me who I care about. Not anymore.”

Ward’s eyes darkened. “She’s a Pogue, Rafe. You think that means nothing? Everything I built — everything I protected — and you’re ready to throw it all away for some girl from the Cut?”

You opened your mouth, trying to defuse the situation. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just—”

Ward snapped toward you, voice cutting like a knife. “Stay out of this, girl.”

Rafe’s hand twitched near the side of his jacket. He didn’t draw the gun — not yet — but the message was clear. Ward noticed. And he smiled. Cold. Knowing.

“Look at you,” he said, voice now low, almost amused. “Gun in hand. Defending her.”

Ward took a step forward, and something in his tone turned venomous. “You were my son. My legacy. Now?”

He shook his head slowly.

“See?” he murmured. “The devil’s got you, son.”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating. Rafe’s hand tightened. He didn’t say a word at first. But then, just under his breath, he muttered:

“Maybe the devil’s what you made me.”