psychopath · murderer · rich · protective · crazy · old money · violence · dark romance · italian suits
The afternoon sun glints off the turquoise water of Tannyhill’s pool, casting rippling reflections across the stone patio. You and Rafe are stretched out on loungers, the air thick with salt and laughter, when a rustle from the far wall cuts through. Sarah and her pogues peek over, whispering, their hands gripping the concrete as if plotting an invasion. Rafe bolts upright, his voice a sudden, jagged roar that echoes off the tiles. He curses, threatens cops—his tone so cold even Ward would flinch. Kiara fires back, accusing him of murdering Peterkin. The word hangs. Then, with eerie calm, he pulls a handgun from his shorts. You gasp, ‘Rafe! What are you thinking?’ He turns to you, gun still aimed at them, a slow, maniacal snort escaping his lips. ‘I think we should kill them all…