Outer Banks Rafe Novels & Stories

Orlando twists around. Just outside his window stands a big, muscled guy with a closely shaved head and a dark line of stubble along his jaw. At first glance, he's terrifying - but then I get a better look at his face. It's the only one of Orlando's brothers I haven't met yet - Raphael, or Rafe, as he's more commonly known. "Everything okay in there?" Rafe says through the window. His voice is so deep it's almost startling.

I was halfway through the plate when the diner door opened and Rafe walked in. He looked like he had been through a war. Blood on his shirt, dirt on his face, a cut above his eye that was fresh and had not healed yet which meant it had happened in the last hour. He scanned the diner with those steady dark eyes and found me in the back booth and relief crossed his face so clearly I could read it from across the room. He walked over and slid into the booth across from me and we looked at each other in silence for a long moment. "You are alive," I said.

The image rendered smoothly, showing Rafe Morale Blackwood sitting inside the darkened interior of an unmarked sedan, a sleek silver briefcase resting on his knees. "The four-month countdown is officially cancelled, Elias," Rafe said through the speaker, his voice a flat, bloodless instrument that carried a chilling, absolute confidence. He lifted a black remote detonator toward the camera, his thumb resting lightly on the primary toggle. "Your sister Nora has already signed the succession proxies over to my shell company. You have exactly forty seconds to clear the Southwark bunker before the automated cooling vents switch from nitrogen to live explosive primers."

“Go get hot for your man.” When I finally get outside, Rafe is leaning against his car like he stepped straight out of a rock music video. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans, a dark green Henley clings to every muscle, with a black leather jacket over top, and he’s wearing a smirk that could melt my panties off. “Damn, sugar,” he whistles lowly. “Are you trying to kill me before I even leave town?” “Maybe,” I say, acting demure. “You like?”

He said, “Whatever it is, you know I’m only loyal to you. I’m your man, Jamie. Ever since that day you rescued me from those bloody rogues.” Jamie knew he could hold Raffa to that. The first time Jamie met Rafa was through an unfortunate event where he had to rescue him from a bunch of rogue wolves that were trying to kill him. He didn’t know who Rafa was by then, but he rescued him anyway, knowing that he was falling prey to the rogue wolves. Ever since then Rafa had been a loyal friend to Jamie. After digging deeper, they realized that Rafa was indeed from their own pack, but due to the death of his parents, he had been on the streets. Rafa was 13 years old then, almost the same age as Jam

Rafe stood in front of my desk, silently scrolling through his iPad, updating files and coordinating my other businesses. The silence was comfortable. Until Rafe’s phone rang. He answered immediately. “Yes?” His expression changed in an instant. His body tensed, eyes sharpening with alarm. He listened for a few seconds, then said curtly, “Okay,” and ended the call. He looked up at me. “She left the airport,” Rafe said. “Took a cab into the city, bought a road map, rented a car, and is now on the move. Our men just caught up with her at a gas station. She’s heading out of Asheville.”

Nothing. We rolled into the main yard. People stopped and stared. Not shocked to see us alive. Shocked to see us at all. The front doors of the packhouse opened. Rafe strode out. He looked rough - stubble, dark circles, shirt half-buttoned wrong - but very much alive. He stopped dead when he saw us. Then his eyes narrowed. “Where the hell were you for so long?” We all frowned. Maddox killed the engine first. “So long?” he repeated.

“He’s been too quiet. So have Alpha Egbert and Natasha as a matter of fact. That doesn’t sit right with me.” Rafe leaned back in his chair, a deep scowl settling on his face. His instincts told him the same thing—this wasn’t over. “It’s the calm before the storm,” he muttered. Alex crossed his arms. “Then we need to be ready when it hits.” Rafe’s gaze flicked to the window, watching the sunlight glistening on the ocean. His mind was a battlefield of thoughts—Delia, Natasha, Nate, the silver-haired man, and now the looming presence of rogue wolves at their borders.

Malik gave a single, curt nod, his eyes flicking to Lachlan before returning to the blueprints. "The joker is Rafe," Dan continued. "A Nahual from the favelas of Rio. Favored hitman for the Dos Santos shifter cartel, right up until he stole their entire digital ledger and leaked it to the federales just for the chaos of it. He’s been running from a kill order ever since." Rafe offered a two-finger salute, though his eyes were locked on Lachlan’s claws, which were subconsciously extending.

* I straighten up. Rafe is looking at me. Not with triumph, not with calculation. Just — looking. The same way he looks at the tree line at night, like he is taking inventory of something he intends to protect. The morning air is cold and the mate bond is warm in my chest and Landon is already demonstrating the fall to River the wolf and I am standing three feet from Rafe Blackthorn in my own backyard at seven forty-five in the morning and I am not moving away. *Go inside,* I tell myself.