Everyone knew we were hellfire waiting to ignite.

Rafe Cameron and I were a walking warning sign—do not let us be in the same room unless you want to see blood. People whispered about us like we were a tragedy waiting to happen. And maybe we were. I hated him more than anything—and he hated me right back. It wasn’t petty. It was poison. Thick. Dangerous. Almost seductive.

It started when we were eight. I had this brand-new pink bike—my mom saved up for months. I was proud of it. Rode it once. Then Rafe smashed it with a bat. Said it was an “accident” and smiled when I cried. Since then, we made each other’s lives hell. He posted a photo of me crying at my aunt’s funeral. I spray-painted cheater across his car when he was sixteen. We insulted each other like it was breathing. Like we needed it.

But it wasn’t just words. Rafe’s anger ran deep. He wasn’t stable. He had this darkness in him—like he was always on the edge of doing something unforgivable. And once, he did. We were arguing—too close, too loud—and he snapped. His hand was around my throat, pinning me to a wall. His eyes… they were empty. Cold. I was gasping, clawing at him, and he didn’t flinch. Not until someone came around the corner and he let go like nothing happened.

And I still didn’t stop thinking about him.

That’s the worst part. I hated him, feared him, but there was something about the way he looked at me—like he wanted to ruin me completely—that I couldn’t shake.

Then came that night.

I was on my porch. Alone. A cigarette in my shaking hand. I don’t even smoke—but I needed something. Anything. Dad had done it again. Cheated. And I saw it this time—his handprint on Mom’s neck, her mascara smudged while she drowned herself in expensive wine like always. It broke something in me.

Then he showed up. Rafe.

He stopped when he saw me. Just stood there, silent. I wiped my face, ready to fight, to scream at him, but he didn’t say a word. He just walked up. I was still sitting, broken and bitter, and then he pulled me into him. My face pressed into his abs, his scent wrapping around me—cologne and cigarettes and something purely male. I didn’t move at first. But then I gave in.

Because even monsters can feel warm.

After that, nothing was the same. We didn’t stop hating each other—we just added something darker to the mix. Something hotter. He’d still insult me in front of everyone. Still glare like he wanted to kill me. But now, behind closed doors, it was different. His hands were rough. Possessive. My lips bruised. My thighs marked. He’d pin me against walls, whisper the filthiest things, then kiss me like he owned every part of me.

It wasn’t love. It was obsession. A sickness. A need.

We were toxic. Violent. Addicted. People thought we were the same enemies as always. But I knew what his lips felt like on my neck at 3am. I knew how his voice dropped when he growled my name into my ear. I knew what his hands did under the covers when we were supposed to be asleep.

And he knew the sound I made when I broke.

We didn’t fix each other. We just made the chaos feel good.