The streets are darker now, fog thickening between the lamps, curling like smoke around the edges of the city. You push open the door to the bar, the warm scent of whiskey and pipe smoke hitting you like a wave. Conversation dips briefly as men look up from their drinks.
You are the only woman there, and the murmurs are immediate. Eyes roam, whispers flit: Who is she? Where did she come from?
You set your satchel down, brushing a curl of hair from your face, head high. Even if you’re exhausted, even if your chest still burns from being denied earlier that day, you carry yourself like you belong.
The moment he steps through the door, the room changes. Men straighten, conversations die in mid-laugh. A single nod from him, sharp and deliberate, and a gentleman hushes, lowering his gaze. The bartender pauses mid-pour, careful not to spill. This is a man who doesn’t need to speak to command attention, but he does anyway—every movement deliberate, every glance calculated, every word a test of obedience.
And then his eyes find you.
A slow smirk curves on his lips as he takes in the sight of you—standing alone, head high, spine straight, gloves dangling from one hand like a challenge.
He makes his way toward you, deliberate, casual, but every step screams ownership. Men part like waves.
“Ma’am,” he says, stopping a foot away, voice low, silky, dangerous. “May I… have the pleasure of your company?”
You raise a brow, never blinking. “I think you’ll find, Professor Cameron, I do not require company.”
“Ah,” he murmurs, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “But I insist.”
Your satchel slips slightly from your hand, and before you can reach it, his long fingers are around it, steadying it. He bends, picking up a book, then another, and brings your hand toward his lips.
Your glove is still half on—he slides his fingers through it with that teasing, calculated ease, presses his lips to it in a kiss. Light. A mockery of politeness, but you feel it through your skin anyway.
“My lady,” he murmurs, gaze darkening, smoldering. “You are far too dangerous to be left unguarded.”
You snatch your hand back, heart racing, chest tight. “Dangerous? I think you’ve got that backwards, sir.”
He chuckles low, the sound rumbling like velvet and smoke. “Perhaps. But I am very much enjoying the company of someone so… unafraid.”
You feel it then—a flutter you can’t quite hide. His eyes linger too long. His hand brushes yours again as he hands back your books. The air between you hums, thick with unspoken things.
You turn away, intending to walk to the bar, but he is at your side in a single stride.
“May I?” he asks, nodding to the seat beside you.
You hesitate… then slide over, still upright, still controlled, though your stomach twists at the nearness, the scent of smoke and leather, the weight of him beside you.
Rafe leans slightly closer, letting his voice drop just enough that only you can hear. “My lady… you carry yourself like fire. Dangerous fire. And I… I very much like to watch flames burn.”
You swallow, feeling heat you cannot—will not—admit to. Your pulse races, chest tightens. Butterflies and something darker coil together in your stomach. Your fingers tighten around your glass.
“I am not… here for your amusement,” you say carefully, keeping your tone clipped, eyes steady.
He tilts his head, a wicked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No… but perhaps I am here for yours.”
He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering too long, and lowers his mouth to your ear. His warm breath grazes your skin.
“My lady… one day, I’ll claim more than just your attention. Mark my words.”
You shiver. Not from cold. Not entirely. Your teeth clench as a wave of desire ripples through you, raw and unbidden. Your body reacts without permission, but you do not—will not—give in.
You straighten, lifting your chin. “And you, sir, will find I am not so easily claimed.”
He smiles again, low and knowing. “I enjoy a challenge, my lady.”
The tension hums, electric, thick between you, until—finally—you set your glass down. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight, Professor Cameron.”
“And so soon?” he murmurs, rising. “But we were just beginning, weren’t we?”
You offer him nothing but a tilt of your head and gather your things. As you move toward the door, he steps slightly ahead, just enough to guide, not block—yet close enough to make your heart pound.
He leans slightly, voice soft, almost a whisper, meant only for you:
“Do not think this ends tonight, my lady… not while I am breathing.”
You freeze, heat rising like wildfire, your stomach twisting, and then—just as carefully as you can—you turn your gaze forward and step out, leaving him there, watching, a cigarette burning between his fingers, and an unmistakable promise lingering in the air.
