The Rug Pulled
For the first time in weeks, I don’t wake up afraid.
The sheets still smell like Dean—clean linen tangled with smoke and the faintest trace of whiskey. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache, but it’s a good ache, the kind that makes me want to curl into the warmth he left behind and stay there forever.
The house is quiet, too quiet, sunlight spilling pale across the floorboards. Dean had slipped out earlier, murmuring something about handling business, and for once, I didn’t argue. For once, I believed him when he said I was safe here.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen, hair messy, one of his shirts hanging off my shoulders, too big and smelling too much like him. The counter is clean. There were no shadows lurking in the corners. No ghosts clawing at my chest. Just stillness. Just peace.
I pour myself coffee, fingers trembling not from fear but from the strange weightlessness of calm. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Me—laughing in Dean’s house. Me—thinking maybe, just maybe, I could live like this.
The knock comes softly, almost polite.
For a moment I think it’s Dean, forgetting his keys. I don’t even hesitate—I go to the door, mug still warm in my hand, heart lifting stupidly at the thought of him.
But it isn’t Dean.
It’s him.
Rafe leans against the doorframe like he owns it, like he’s been waiting for me all morning, a lazy smirk pulling at his mouth.
His shirt is black, sleeves rolled to the elbow, veins taut over his forearms, tattoos crawling up beneath the fabric.
He looks like sin dressed up in Sunday best, dangerous in the way a snake is beautiful right before it strikes.
“Morning, sweetheart.” His voice is low, velvet-dipped venom. His eyes flicker down my body—his shirt, bare legs, Dean’s shirt—and his grin sharpens. “Borrowed clothes? Cute. But you and I both know they don’t make you his.”
The mug slips in my hand, hot coffee splattering against the floor, but I don’t feel the burn. I can’t move, can’t even breathe, because the way he looks at me isn’t casual. It’s a countdown.
“You’ve got no idea,” Rafe murmurs, leaning closer, breath brushing my cheek, “how little time you really have.”
And then—he pushes.
Hard.
The world tilts, the kitchen disappears, and I’m swallowed whole by his shadow.
Her pulse explodes, shoving blood into her ears, into her shaking hands as the mug crashes at their feet. The smell of coffee burns sharp, bitter, rising between them, but Rafe doesn’t flinch.
I shove at his chest. Hard. My palms slam against muscle, against heat, but he only rocks back an inch, like I’m nothing more than a breeze.
“Get out,” I spit, voice cracking. “Get the fuck out!”
He laughs. Laughs. It’s not loud, not cruel—not yet. It’s low, almost delighted, like he’s been waiting for me to claw at him.
“There she is,” he murmurs, catching my wrist before I can strike again. His grip is iron, twisting me until my arm bends behind my back. Pain shoots hot down my shoulder, but I jerk forward anyway, stomping at his foot, slamming my knee toward his thigh. Anything. Everything.
Rafe takes it, body absorbing every strike like he wants me to burn myself out. “That’s good, Brooklyn,” he breathes, mouth brushing my ear as I thrash. “Fight for it. Makes it sweeter when you lose.”
I slam my head back, skull cracking into his chin. He swears, teeth snapping together, and for a single, blinding second—I think I’ve won.
I wrench free, bolt across the kitchen, bare feet slipping on the tile. My hands find the counter, a knife glinting in the block, and I seize it, spinning, blade trembling but raised.
My chest heaves. My lungs split. “Stay the fuck away from me.”
Rafe wipes blood from his lip with the back of his hand. The smirk returns, sharper now, edged with hunger. “Now that,” he growls, taking a step closer, “is the Brooklyn I came for.”
He moves faster than I can blink. He wrenched my knife hand and slammed it against the wall, making the blade clatter uselessly to the floor. His palm clamps over my mouth before I can scream, dragging me back into him, spine locked to steel.
“Dean can’t keep you,” he whispers, voice like smoke wrapping around my skull. “And deep down—you already know it.”
The struggle bleeds out of me not because I want it to, but because the chloroform-soaked rag presses tight against my face before I can suck another breath.
The world folds in on itself, edges darkening. My body jerks, twists, claws at nothing—then goes limp, swallowed whole.
The last thing I hear is his voice, silk and poison, right against my ear.
“Mine now.”
The world is folding, slipping, dragging me under. My lashes flutter against the chemical burn in my lungs, my fists claw weakly at his chest, but it’s like trying to tear down a mountain with bare hands.
Rafe lifts me as if I weigh nothing, one arm braced beneath my knees, the other clamped across my chest, pinning me against him. My head lolls, the kitchen spinning into smears of light and shadow as he carries me toward the back door.
Cold night air slices across my skin. Somewhere in the distance, tires hiss against wet asphalt, an engine idling low, waiting.
I try to scream but only manage a broken whimper against his palm. My body is giving out, limp and boneless, and he knows it. His grip tightens, possessive, claiming.
He whispers it like a vow, the words hot against my temple: “You’ll understand soon, sweetheart. Dean was only keeping you warm for me.”
The slam of a door cuts through the air. Boots pounded against the ground.
“Brooklyn!”
Dean’s voice. Ragged. Wild.
Rafe doesn’t falter—he shoves me into the black mouth of a waiting car. My fingers scrape uselessly at the leather seat as the world caves in, black swallowing the last scraps of sound.
“Brooklyn!” Dean’s roar tears through the night, raw and feral, the sound of a man breaking.
The door slams shut. Tires screech.
Everything goes dark.