Novel & Cerita Outer Banks Rafe

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.

Would he have killed her or just raped her? I watch over her from out in the rain. I also keep an eye on the broken door that swinging in the wind. I hear the car before I see it. Rafe has a long-standing love for old American muscle cars and I can understand why. A minute later a big, noisy machine pulls into the parking lot and Rafe jumps out and runs over to me. ‘Go inside and secure the door behind the bar. If anyone has gone inside then they can stay there to be dealt with by the vamps. If they run out this way then I will stop them.’ He looks past me into the back seat of my car. ‘Shit. I hope she is ok Alpha. Doc just needs a moment. I don’t think he has ever ridden with me before.’ H

I love you, Maggie,' 'I love you too Jake please come home!' I end the connection I hate the fear in her voice. Rafe comes out of the undergrowth behind the doctor snorting to get his attention. He laid down my head at the doctor's feet in submission hoping he would get the message. He did. "You must be Beta Jake," He says. Rafe nods his head. "Your Alpha is in it deep, isn't he? We need to do something." Rafe whines his agreement.

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.

“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 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.