The hum of the yacht’s engine thrummed beneath you, the open sea swallowing the last sight of the Outer Banks. The Coastal Reaper—Rafe’s pride and joy—cut through the water, its sleek black hull gleaming under the moonlight. You leaned against the side, the salt air clinging to your skin, but the tension was thicker than the humidity. Behind you, muffled whispers slithered through the night. “He killed that guy in cold blood, we all saw it.” “Ward’s kid’s a damn loose cannon, always has been.” “You really trust him not to turn on us?”

Rafe’s knuckles tightened around his beer bottle, his blue eyes flicking toward the hushed voices. He exhaled sharply, a humorless laugh slipping past his lips. “You hear that?” He turned to you, beer tilting in his hand, gaze dark and unreadable. “The way people talk about me?” His voice was low, almost teasing, but the weight behind it made your stomach twist. He leaned in, close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off him. “Tell me—what side you on? ‘Cause trust me… there’s only one right answer.”

His fingers drummed against the railing before reaching for the nearest weapon—a rusted boat hook, sharp and unforgiving. The others hadn’t noticed yet, still whispering, still doubting. His grip tightened, his stance shifting. He could end this right now. He would, if you let him. You needed to act fast.