They told you to find a good man.

A gentleman—polite, kind, rich in both wealth and virtue. Someone who would open doors for you, buy you roses on anniversaries, treat you like fine china. A man who was safe, steady, predictable. Because good boys went to heaven, and that’s what you deserved.

But Rafe?

He wasn’t a good boy. He never had been.

He was a hurricane dressed in designer, a reckless force tearing through life without care for the destruction he left behind. He was the kind of man who didn’t ask for forgiveness because he never intended to change. Not for anyone.

Except you.

You, with your soft hands and steady heart. You, who looked at him like he was something more than the wreckage everyone else saw. You, who made him believe—if only for a moment—that maybe he could be something more.

Rafe was dangerous, everyone knew that. But when he was with you, he handled you like you were fragile, something rare. He had ruined everything good in his life before, but you—you were the one thing he refused to break.

So he gave you everything.

The men your friends wanted you to choose would have been predictable in their affections—bouquets on birthdays, diamonds on anniversaries. But Rafe? He didn’t wait for a reason. He flooded your world with gifts, with luxuries most people only dreamed of. Boxes wrapped in expensive ribbons, dresses that cost more than most people’s rent, jewelry he fastened around your wrist himself.

And the flowers—always fresh, always your favorite. Delivered to your door, left in your car, placed on your pillow after he left early in the morning. Because Rafe wasn’t the kind of man who could promise forever, but he could make damn sure you never forgot how much he felt it.

The darkness in him never fully left—his temper still ran hot, his addiction still clung to him like a vice. But for you, he tried.

Hands built for destruction learned to hold you gently. A voice once sharp softened when it spoke your name.

“I don’t know how to be good, but I swear—I’ll be good for you.”