The swamp was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, made your breathing sound too loud. The ground was damp beneath you, the smell of mud and stagnant water thick in the air. Every inch of your body ached, the pain radiating from your temple where dried blood clung to your skin. You tried to move, but your limbs felt too heavy, useless.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate. Crunching against the dirt.

You forced your eyes open, blinking against the blur. A figure stood a few feet away, backlit by the fading light. Tall, broad shoulders, familiar blonde hair—Rafe Cameron.

Of all people.

You’d seen him before, at parties, in country clubs, always surrounded by people who hung onto his every word. You’d never spoken, never had a reason to. But now he was here, staring at you, and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing.

He tilted his head, studying you like you were some stray animal he’d stumbled upon.

“The fuck happened to you?” His tone wasn’t concerned, just curious, almost amused.

Your throat was dry, raw. You tried to speak, but all that came out was a weak, broken noise.

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing around like he was contemplating something. Like he was trying to decide if you were worth the trouble.

You could see it in his eyes—the hesitation.

He could just leave you here. No one came to the swamp. It was quiet, forgotten. If he walked away now, no one would know he’d even seen you.

And for a second, it looked like he might.

But then he sighed, running a hand through his messy blonde hair before crouching down beside you. His expression wasn’t exactly soft, but something shifted.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Without another word, he slid his arms under you and lifted you effortlessly. His grip was firm, but not careful. More like he was just doing what had to be done. You let out a weak whimper, and he barely reacted, just adjusted his hold.

“Don’t get used to this,” he muttered. “Not a fucking habit.”

You didn’t respond—couldn’t.