The first thing anyone learned about Rafe Cameron was that you did not want to be on his bad side. He was Ward Cameron’s son, after all—entitled, volatile, and with a temper that could ignite like spilled gasoline. The second thing they learned was that he was with you.

You were a quiet girl, the kind who apologized when someone bumped into you, who followed every rule, whose heart was soft in a world that felt increasingly hard. It was a pairing that baffled everyone. They saw Rafe’s public face: the charming smirk, the possessive arm around your shoulders, the expensive gifts. They whispered about the other face—the one rumored to be insane, psycho, a killer. But you never saw it. With you, he was all gentle hands and low promises. He kept that darkness locked away, a beast he never let near your door.

Until he did. It happened after a party at the Boneyard. A boy, emboldened by cheap beer, had put his hands on you. You’d said “stop,” clear and firm. Your friends had pulled him away, and you’d gone home shaken, the feeling of his grip still on your wrist.

You told Rafe. You just needed comfort, his arms around you, his voice telling you it was over. But as you spoke, you saw the change. The warmth in his eyes iced over, solidifying into something terrifyingly blank. He didn’t yell. He just stood up, grabbed his truck keys, and walked out.

“Rafe, no!” you cried, chasing him. You scrambled into the passenger seat, pleading. “It’s handled. It’s done. Please, just take me home.” He said nothing. His jaw was a granite line, his knuckles white on the wheel. The truck roared through the Kildare night.

He pulled up to a modest house on the outskirts. He knew where the boy lived. He always knew. He got out, and you followed, a desperate shadow. He knocked—three sharp, final raps.

The boy opened the door, confusion turning to recognition, then to fear. Rfe shouldered his way inside.

“Rafe, don’t!” you screamed.

But it was already happening. The first punch was a sickening crack. The boy crumpled. Rafe didn’t stop. He hauled him up only to hit him again. And again. The sound was awful, a wet, brutal thudding that filled the small living room.

“Stop! You’re going to kill him! RAFE!” Your screams were raw, tearing from your throat. You grabbed his arm, but he shook you off like a leaf. You were just background noise, a distant siren drowned out by the roar in his own head.

It lasted minutes. An eternity. With one final, shuddering impact, the boy went still. Rafe stood over him, chest heaving, his fists bloody. The only sound was your ragged sobs.

Then, his voice, low and gravelly, cut through the silence. “Shouldn’t… touch my girl.”

A cold dread poured into your stomach. You rushed forward, falling to your knees beside the boy. You pressed your fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. You leaned close, listening for breath. There was none. Just the quiet of a snuffed-out life.

“He’s… he’s not breathing,” you whispered, the world tilting on its axis. “Oh my god. Oh my god, he’s dead.” Hysteria climbed your spine, sharp and paralyzing. You were gasping, the air too thin, your hands fluttering uselessly.

Then, Rafe was there. He knelt in front of you, blocking your view of the body. His bloody hands came up, but they were surprisingly gentle as they framed your face, forcing you to look at him and only him.

“Look at me. Breathe,” he said, his voice unnervingly calm now, a stark contrast to the violence of moments before. His thumbs stroked your cheeks. “Just breathe. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“He’s dead, Rafe!” you choked out.

“He touched you,” Rafe stated, as if that explained everything. As if it were a simple, immutable law of the universe. The fury was gone from his eyes, replaced by a terrifying, absolute certainty. “He won’t ever do it again. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

In that moment, staring into the eyes of the boy you loved, you finally saw the beast he’d always hidden. It wasn’t snarling. It was calm, satisfied, and it looked back at you as if it had just done you a great favor