Outer Banks Rafe Novels & Stories

Rafe cut toward the side entrance, firing once through the glass in the door before kicking it in. We entered fast. The first room inside looked like a stripped warehouse office. Tables overturned into cover. Two men behind them. One barely old enough to shave properly. I shot the older one first. The younger one hesitated and paid for it. Maleek took the next target before I even fully turned. “Left,” Rafe called. I went left.

They quickly moved to leave and get four more settings for Uncle Jaspar, Aunt Blythe, and their girls. “This is not going to go well,” I muttered, and Rafe glanced at me with raised eyebrows. “It’s not too late for you to run,” I told him. He grinned at me, and I melted a little. “I had no idea your grandfather is the great Omar Graycort,” he said. “You know our grandfather?” Ray asked, surprised. Rafe tilted his head. “More like I know of him. My firm handles his company.” “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of our dad,” I said.

Rafe's dark eyes locked on, calm but piercing, like he could see right through the casual stance. "Morning," Rafe said, his voice low and even, carrying the weight of someone used to being heard. "Name's Rafe. Moved in next door last night. Your party's carrying a bit." He didn't raise his tone, but the words landed heavy, no room for bullshit.

Chapter: 4. ****** "Alpha, I think it's time you reconsider your stance regarding Omegas. The pack members are starting to whisper," Rafe said, leaning against a tree. He was dressed in his usual suit, but without his tie, and his white shirt had its first three buttons open. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he watched his Alpha carefully, waiting for any reaction on his face, but the man remained completely poker-faced.

The four of them claimed a corner near the steps, elbows hooked on warm stone, drinks within reach. Rafe fetched rounds. Natalie stole sips from everyone’s glass. Jace’s thigh brushed Lena’s beneath the surface on purpose exactly twice, “accidentally” at least ten times. "Where are you from, Rafe?" Natalie asked. “Denver originally. Now I just chase surf and coffee.” “So homeless,” she teased. “So discerning,” he corrected, grinning. Lena tipped her head to Jace. “And you?” Rafe asked Lena. “Here,” she said, brushing her shoulder against his. “Right now, I’m from here.”

Orders barked into comms. Rafe doesn’t flinch. He moves. God help me, he moves like he never left. It happens between shots. Between commands. Between the life I wanted and the one I can’t escape. A man stumbles out from behind a crate—mid-forties, scarred cheek, Volkov markings burned into his neck. He freezes when he sees Rafe. Eyes widen. “You,” he breathes. “You’re dead.” Rafe stops. Just for a second.

He wore a tight black t-shirt that strained against the definition of his shoulders. He was eating a steak, a massive, bloody cut at eight in the morning, tearing into it with his teeth like a predator. His eyes were fixed on the window, but the energy radiating off him was entirely, dangerously focused on me. And Rafe. Rafe sat to Damian’s left, with the picture of terrifying composure. He sipped black coffee from a porcelain mug, his dark eyes tracking my every movement from behind the steam. He looked impeccable, as always, but there was a tightness around his mouth, a barely contained stillness that screamed he was holding on by the thinnest of threads.

Coffee went cold. I returned to our house despite the restrictions. The place still carried the scent of lemon and spice. I moved quickly. Clothes. Documents. Essentials. I didn’t look at anything long enough to feel it. Cole drove us to Rafe’s apartment after that. It hadn’t been lived in for three months. Not since Rafe was admitted to the hospital. He’s twenty-two. Still hasn’t found his mate. He used to joke about being unlucky. Now he’s bedridden. Two days before the trial, I go to see him.

*** He was already there. Rafe leaned against a concrete support pillar, one foot braced, hands in the pockets of a battered leather jacket. A car—a sleek, unmarked thing—sat a few meters away, engine off, doors closed. He looked older. Of course he did. So did she. There was more scar tissue in his face now—one along his jaw, another breaking one eyebrow. His hair was shorter than she remembered, stubble shading his jaw. But the eyes were the same: sharp, restless, too bright. Eyes that had watched alleys and back rooms with a scavenger’s hunger.

He was displayed. Mila stood nearby, face pale. “It was done fast,” she said. “No struggle signs. He trusted whoever got close.” Betrayal again. Always betrayal. “Where’s Rafe?” I asked before I could stop myself. “He’s inside,” she said quietly. Inside. I moved past her into the warehouse. Rafe stood in the center of the empty space, staring at the far wall. His back was rigid. His hands were at his sides. Too still.