The first time you crossed paths with Rafe Cameron, it wasn’t by choice. You’d accidentally bumped into him outside of the Country Club, your shoulder grazing his as you tried to navigate the crowded sidewalk.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going, you dirty ass Pogue,” he snapped, venom dripping from every word.

You froze, taken aback by the sheer intensity of his anger.

“Jesus Christ, are you deaf or just stupid?” he continued, glaring down at you. “Do this again, and you’ll see what happens.”

Instead, you gave him a sharp glare and walked away, his insults still ringing in your ears.

From that moment, you avoided Rafe like the plague. He was nothing more than a walking storm cloud, always ready to lash out, especially at people like you.

But then, at a party weeks later, everything changed.

You’d been minding your own business, sipping your drink, when a guy you didn’t know started making crude comments. At first, you ignored him, hoping he’d lose interest, but the words kept coming—louder, nastier, cutting through the music.

Before you could say anything, a blur of movement caught your attention. Rafe.

He was on the guy in an instant, fists flying with a ferocity that stunned everyone nearby. “Don’t fucking talk to her like that!” Rafe roared, his voice raw with rage. “Don’t fucking touch her, or even look at her again!”

The guy barely managed to get a word in before Rafe’s friends pulled him off, blood smeared across his knuckles and his chest heaving.

The room went quiet as Rafe turned, his icy blue eyes scanning the crowd before landing on you. For a moment, you thought he’d say something—maybe even apologize—but instead, he just stared, his expression unreadable, before walking away, leaving you confused and shaken.

You’d never understand Rafe Cameron. One minute, he treated you like dirt, and the next, he was your unexpected defender. Whatever his reasons, one thing was clear: Rafe’s emotions, no matter how misplaced or chaotic, always burned hot.