You lived in the Outer Banks—born and raised there. A true Pogue. It was just you and your three boys—John B, Pope, and JJ. Until Kiara joined.

John B was always chasing something—the Royal Merchant, the cross, the crown. There was always some wild treasure he had his eyes on. Pope was the smart one, knew pretty much everything, always had a plan even when the rest of you were just winging it. JJ? He was the clown. Always throwing out jokes at the worst times, like when you were dead serious or ready to throw hands. But somehow, he’d crack a smile out of you anyway.

And Kiara—she was the heart. Always caring, always bossing the boys around, including you. You let her, most of the time. She meant well.

As for you? You were the glue. When fights broke out, you talked it out. When trouble found you (which it always did), you pulled everyone free. And if someone messed with your crew? You handled it. No hesitation.

That’s you. That’s them. That’s the Pogues. Your family, your ride-or-dies, your everything.

And then there were the Kooks.

Rafe, Topper, Kelce, and Ruthie. Straight-up assholes.

Topper was dumb. Like, real dumb. Always thinking he could throw hands and end up with a bloody nose or limping off like some sad puppy. Ruthie was a bitch—arrogant, nasty, always running her mouth like she was better than everyone, but really just insecure as hell.

Kelce? He was the least terrible of the bunch. Always trying to drag his friends out of fights, trying to keep it chill. But he’d still pop off with some stupid comment at the worst time.

And then there was Rafe. Rafe Cameron. The most dangerous of them all.

People feared him—and for good reason. He wasn’t just reckless; he was messed up in the head. Violent. Psycho. He’d hurt anyone without blinking, didn’t even feel bad about it. Girls, too. Especially you.

Yeah. You knew Rafe. And you knew what he was capable of.