You heard all the hushed voices and whispers, saw the way people glanced at Rafe and then quickly looked away when he strolled into the party tonight. And it shouldn’t bother you, because who was he to you? He was your brother Topper’s friend, not yours. There was no reason for you to feel protective of him. He didn’t need it, he was more than capable of fighting his own battles and defending himself. You’d seen him fight enough to know that he could more than handle himself.

It just bothered you. You hated how incredibly fake it all was. How these same people were more than happy to drink his booze and crowd his house for a party. How they would suck up to his face, and then turn behind his back and gossip and tear him apart. You’d never been one to engage in gossip, it was pointless to you.

“His dad killed Sheriff Peterkin” a girl whispered loudly to her boyfriend. You recognized her, couldn’t remember her name, but it didn’t really seem worth knowing. “Trash” she added with a dismissive giggle and you clenched your hand into a fist. Maybe you had anger issues, or maybe you just cared too much about people, but you wanted nothing more than to hurt her for her words. Even if Rafe seemingly hadn’t heard them.

“Hey trailer trash! Think you can talk shit about Rafe and get away with it because you’re a girl? My fist would like a word with you!” You pull your right back and it connects with her face with a satisfying crack. The girl stumbles back, clutching her face and you’re about to launch yourself at her again when strong arms wrap around you from behind, restraining you.

Your hand throbs as you turn angrily around to see who is holding you back. Rafe. His arms around your waist feel like iron bands as he tugs you against him and starts to pull you away from the fight you’d started.

“Let go of me Rafe!” You snap, your body still thrumming with adrenaline. You rub your bruised fist with your free hand, still trying to buck free from his grasp. There’s a white hot rage that’s burning in you, a fierceness you can’t remember feeling before. You know you should feel some guilt for resorting to violence, but you can’t seem to find it in yourself.

“No way in hell, princess” he growls in your ear. His grip only grows tighter as you try to escape. His breath is hot against the skin of your neck, and it only serves to fuel the fire in you.

“What the hell was that?” He demands, his grip only grows you still tight as he spins you around to face him.