catherine pulling a prank on rafe when he gets home from work and they get into a fight until she tells him its a prank and hes punishes her for it?? 🤭
Summary: rafe cameron (33) thought the lunchbox prank was catherine’s (32) doing until lara confessed it was her and mason. lara (12) was guilty, mason (15) was reckless, and catherine was punished.
Warnings: NSFW (smut), rough sex, edging, choking, spanking, breeding kink, housewife kink, degradation, overstimulation, angst with hints of domestic softness, cameron family dynamics, father/son conflict, harsh language, yelling, guilt, emotional tension, parenting struggles,
MASTERLIST
Lara Cameron’s bedroom looked like it had been dipped in bubblegum and glitter. Everything—her curtains, her rug, even the ridiculous feather pen on her desk—was pink. She had her iPhone propped up on a ring light, recording in perfect vertical frame for her TikTok. She adjusted the gloss on her lips, flicked her hair over her shoulder, and grinned at the camera like she was already famous.
“Heyyy, guys,” she sang, putting on her influencer voice. “So I decided to film a Pack My Lunchbox With Me since it's all over my For you Page— but with a twist. Today, we're gonna pack my Dad's lunch, but it's gonna be a prank.”
Mason was sprawled across her bed like he owned the place, long legs dangling off the edge. At fifteen, he carried himself like a frat boy who’d been shrunk down and shoved into a sophomore’s body—loud, cocky, and endlessly inappropriate. The kind of kid who thought stealing his dad’s dirt bike to impress a girl was a genius idea. It wasn’t, obviously, since Rafe had grounded him for the rest of the month and Mase had come up with the whole prank idea to get back at him.
This was payback, baby.
“Alright, Lara,” Mason said, dragging a backpack onto the bed and unzipping it with a smirk. “Ready for the gourmet menu?”
Lara side-eyed him through her lashes. “This better not be dumb. My followers don’t do dumb. They do aesthetic.” She turned back to the camera, tossing her hair dramatically. “We’re gonna prank him, but, like, he still needs to eat good too, duh.”
Mason snorted, pulling out the first item. A tin of dog food, clunky and offensive against her silk bedspread. He slapped a neon sticky note across the front in his messy handwriting: Since you’re being a bitch.
Lara’s jaw dropped. “Mason!” she hissed, snapping her head toward him. “You can’t—oh my god, that’s for Dad!”
“Exactly.” Mason leaned back, smug. “He grounded me for nothing. I didn’t even scratch the bike. This is justice.”
She turned back to the phone, forcing a smile, her voice slipping into that high-pitched TikTok tone again. “Okayyy, so like, I picked up this super protein-packed entrée—” she angled the camera to avoid showing the label as she picked the item she had picked for the lunch—“because health is wealth!”
Mason dug back into the bag, grinning like Christmas came early. Next came a jar of pureed baby food, banana-flavored. The sticky note read: Since you want to act like a baby.
Lara groaned dramatically, throwing herself back on the bed. “You’re actually the worst. Dad’s gonna hate us when he finds out it was you.”
“He already hates me, so, like, what’s the difference?” Mason shrugged.
Lara huffed, rolling her eyes as she picked up the salmon bagel she had made because she knew her Dad loved them, "His favorite."
But the pièce de résistance came last. Mason pulled out a small orange prescription bottle and shook it like a maraca, his grin wolfish. He slapped a sticky note across it: Since you can’t man up.
Lara blinked. “What even is that?”
“Viagra. Swiped it from Uncle Topp,” Mason said casually, as if that explained everything.
Her mouth fell open. “You—WHAT?! That’s, like—EW. I can’t put that in a TikTok, Mason! I’ll get cancelled!”
“Or famous.” Mason winked, shaking the pill bottle one more time. “Sex sells.”
Lara’s perfectly glossed lips parted in horror. “Oh my god. Mason. No. Absolutely not. Dad is not opening a lunchbox full of—” she waved her manicured fingers at the dog food, the baby food, and the pills like they were radioactive—“whatever that is!”
Mason just grinned wider, like he’d been waiting for this exact meltdown. “What? Scared Daddy’s gonna be mad at his little princess?” His tone dripped with sarcasm, but underneath it there was that teenage bitterness.
“Of course! I'm his favourite kid,” Lara shot back immediately, her voice shrill with both indignation and certainty. “He always listens. He does whatever I say. He doesn't get mad at me—”
“Exactly.” Mason leaned forward, eyes sparking. “That’s why this works. He’ll never believe you did it. He’ll think Mom packed it. And when he opens it at work? Instant humiliation. He’ll lose it.”
Lara froze, her ring light casting a halo over her nervous face. “Wait… you want Dad to think Mom did it?”
“Duh.” Mason casually closed the lunchbox, snapping the latches shut with finality. “Why else would he take it seriously? Dad’s never gonna yell at you, but if he thinks Mom's calling him a bitch and handing him Viagra with his sandwich—ohhh, man, fireworks.”
Lara’s nose wrinkled. “That’s… evil.”
“Nuh-uh, I'm just giving him a piece of his medicine - literally,” Mason corrected, tossing the bag into her hands. “He humiliated me in front of all my friends because of the goddamn bike. I'm just returning the fucking gesture.”
But Lara hesitated, clutching the bag like it was about to explode. The whole plan suddenly felt different. She wanted views, yes, but not at the cost of disrespecting her dad. She loved him too much to do this.
“I can’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I can’t hand this to Mom. I’m not dragging her into this. Dad’ll think she actually hates him or something, and then what if they fight? I don’t want that.”
Mason rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck in his skull. “Relax, Lara. Mom’s tougher than you think. And Dad—” his grin turned sharp—“Dad deserves it.”
Lara hugged the lunchbox tighter to her chest, staring at her camera still recording on the ring light. If she posted this, if she handed this over and filmed his reaction when he got home, she’d get everything she ever wanted—views, followers, attention. But it wasn’t just about her anymore. Mason was dragging their mom into it, and that was a line she wasn’t sure she wanted to cross.
“Fine,” she huffed, tossing her hair. “But when Dad freaks out, you’re explaining it. Not me. And I'm snitching you, I won't let that fall on Mom.”
Mason smirked, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Sure you would.”
“Lara! Mase! Come downstairs, you'll be late!” Catherine’s voice carried sharp through the pink walls, a practiced mom-yell that didn’t need repeating.
Lara jumped, fumbling to grab her phone off the ring light. Her thumb hovered over the screen as she hesitated, then finally hit stop on the recording. She tucked the phone into her school uniform's pocket like it was a weapon she couldn’t be caught holding.
By the door, Mason was already two steps ahead, slinging both his backpack and Lara’s over his shoulder like some smug pack mule. “Come on, Lara,” he drawled, already twisting the knob. “Showtime.”
They trailed down the stairs, the smell of bacon and toast still lingering from breakfast. In the hallway, Bradley was leaning against the wall, arms crossed like a middle-aged dad trapped in a 14-year-old’s body. His eyes narrowed at them.
“Why’d you skip breakfast?” he asked, suspicion dripping from every word.
Mason only smirked, ignoring Brad, and nudged Lara with his elbow, jerking his chin toward the kitchen. “Go on. Make the drop.”
Lara froze, clutching the lunchbox to her chest. She whispered harshly, “Mason, I can’t—”
But Mason had already brushed past Bradley, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll be in the garage. Don’t take forever, Lara.”
Bradley rolled his eyes but followed, muttering something under his breath about Mason being “so dramatic.” That left Lara standing there alone, her lunch trap clutched tight. She sucked in a breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed into the kitchen—secretly filming again, the camera angled low in her hand.
Catherine was at the counter, rinsing a coffee mug. She looked up immediately. “Lara. Why didn’t you come down for breakfast? You know I don’t like when you skip meals.”
Lara pasted on her brightest TikTok smile. “Because I was filming something for TikTok. Packing my Dad’s lunch for work!” She held up the glittering lunchbox like it was a prize. “It's trending, and my followers really wanted it— But I promise to eat the second I step in school.”
Catherine softened, just a little. “That’s sweet, baby. But you know your dad doesn’t really take lunches. He’ll probably just grab something out.”
“Right, but—” Lara bit her lip, then pitched her voice higher, sweeter. “Can you, like… pretend you packed it for him? For the video? So when Dad finds out it was me, it’s, like, extra wholesome? TikTok eats that up.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow, turning back toward the sink. “Pretend I packed it?”
“Yes!” Lara nodded quickly, blonde hair bouncing. “It’ll be so cute, Mom. Dad’s gonna love it.”
Catherine gave a short laugh, shaking her head. “Honey, the last time I packed your dad a lunch was… what, four years ago? Back when you kids were outgrowing the lunchbox phase, so he let me pack it for him to trick you. If I hand this to him now, he’s going to know something’s up.”
Lara’s smile faltered for just a second, her confidence slipping. She twisted the lunchbox in her hands, hoping her phone wasn’t shaking in the frame. “But if you do it, Mom, he would surely open it.”
Catherine shot her a sharp, mom-look over her shoulder. “Lara, what’s in that lunchbox?”
Lara’s heart skipped. She grinned wider, teeth clenched. “Um… love?”
Catherine set the coffee mug down and eyed the lunchbox like it was radioactive. “Did you just pack him a bunch of snacks or something?” She reached for the latch.
Lara’s heart jumped into her throat. “No, mom. You know I'm all about whole foods, why would I—” she squeaked, clutching the handle tighter.
Before Catherine could tug it away, heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. Rafe strode into the kitchen, face freshly shaved, tie tightened around his neck. He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss against Catherine’s lips with one hand on her waist.
Lara had her phone angled instantly, filming the whole thing in secret, trying to ignore the panic rising in her chest.
“Why aren't you in the car, princess?” Rafe asked, turning to look at her with that Cameron half-smile.
Lara tucked her phone down by her side, pasting on her sweetest face. “Um… just wanted to, like, say bye to Mom. I missed breakfast and didn' twant to just leave, you know?” She widened her eyes, layering on the doe-eyed innocence she knew he could never resist.
Rafe chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re something else.” He reached for his briefcase on the counter, but Catherine, still suspicious, slipped the lunchbox into his free hand.
“Here,” she said. “I wanted you to have a homemade lunch today.”
Rafe blinked down at the lunch box in his hand, eyebrows lifting. “Really?” He looked between his wife and daughter, clearly touched. “Man, it’s been years since I’ve gotten one of these. Thanks, babe.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Catherine shot Lara another look.
But Rafe wasn’t paying attention. He swung the lunchbox proudly like it was gold. “Can’t wait to see what you packed me.”
Lara’s stomach twisted. She plastered on a grin, praying her lip gloss wasn’t smudging under the pressure.
Together, they headed toward the garage. Mason and Bradley were already in the car, Mason slouched smugly in the backseat, Bradley scrolling on his phone. Maisie drolling over her backpack.
Lara slid into the passenger seat beside her dad, clutching her rhinestone phone like it might protect her from what was coming.
By noon, Rafe was practically buzzing. The lunchbox sat on the corner of his desk like a treasure chest. He hadn’t touched it all morning—partly because he wanted to draw it out, partly because he couldn’t stop thinking about Catherine. She hadn’t packed him a lunch in years. And now? Between her cooking, her taking care of the kids, and now this little surprise—it felt like she was still finding ways to make his life easier.
“Man,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over the lunch bag. “She’s too good to me.”
When lunch rolled around, he carried it to the conference room where a few of his colleagues were already sitting. These weren’t just coworkers—they were trusted men at Cameron Development, friends he’d built deals with, laughed with, bled with.
“Cameron!” one of them called, nodding at the box as he sat down. “What’s that? You raiding your little girl's lunch stash?”
Rafe smirked, snapping the latches open. “Nah. My wife made this for me.” Pride swelled in his voice. “Been years since I’ve had one. Didn’t even have to make my assistant order food today.”
The guys laughed, shaking their heads. “Lucky bastard. My wife won’t even make me coffee.”
“Yeah, Catherine’s a keeper,” another added.
Rafe leaned back, grinning like a man who already knew he’d won the lottery. “Damn right she is.”
He pulled out the first items—bagel with smoked salmon, wrapped neatly, and a protein bar tucked beside it. “See? Even thinks about my macros.”
More laughter, more comments about how Catherine spoiled him. Rafe felt like a king.
Until he reached deeper into the box.
His hand closed around something small and metal. He pulled it out. Dog food. A sticky note slapped across it: Since you’re being a bitch.
The room went quiet.
Rafe froze, staring at the tin. Slowly, he set it down on the table, jaw tightening. Next came a jar of baby food. Another note: Since you want to act like a baby.
A low, incredulous laugh bubbled up from his chest. His colleagues shifted in their seats, glancing at each other.
And then—he saw it. The orange pill bottle. His pulse jumped. Since you can’t keep up being a man.
The laugh that left him this time wasn’t amused. It was sharp, bitter, dangerous. “What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching.
The guys didn’t say anything, smart enough to know when Rafe Cameron was about to blow.
He shoved the cursed items back into the box, snapping the lid shut with a crack. His mind was racing, blood hot in his veins. Catherine. She’d really thought this was funny? She’d really slipped this shit in between his salmon bagel like some kind of joke?
He rubbed his jaw, laughing to himself again—an angry, low chuckle. “Alright. Wife just wants to play, guys.”
Because if Catherine thought she could humiliate him like this, she had another thing coming. He’d be the one laughing when he got home—when he spread her out on their bed and showed her exactly how much of a man he was.
For a long moment, no one at the table spoke. The lunchbox with stickers on it sat there like a bomb, its lid just barely holding in the chaos Mason and Lara had packed.
Then, one of the guys cleared his throat. “Damn, Cameron. I take my words back. I'm lucky my woman doesn't even make me coffee.”
A ripple of laughter went around the table. Someone else added, “Better eat that baby food, man—might keep you young.”
Rafe’s knuckles flexed around the edge of the box. His temper flared hot in his chest, but outwardly he smirked, tilting his head like he was in on the joke. “Inside thing,” he said coolly. “She likes to mess with me sometimes.”
That bought him a few chuckles and nods. They went back to their conversations, but Rafe barely heard a word. His mind was a storm. Inside joke? Like hell it was. Catherine had packed him dog food and fucking Viagra, then set him up to get clowned on in front of his own men.
When the lunch break ended and the room cleared out, he stayed behind, jaw tight, pulling his phone from his pocket.
He dialed Catherine.
She answered on the second ring, voice light. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”
“Lunch was great,” Rafe said, forcing his voice into an easy drawl. “Good nutrition, salmon hit the spot. And those little notes? Real sweet touch.”
There was a beat of silence, then Catherine’s soft laugh. “Oh my God, you actually liked that? I was so nervous”
Her giggle made the back of his neck burn. She was playing along. Playing with him.
“Yeah,” he said, smile curling sharp even though no one could see him. “Real funny, Cath.”
She hummed, still clueless. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
When the call ended, Rafe sat back in his chair, pulse hammering. That was all the confirmation he needed. Catherine had done this on purpose. She’d slipped those notes in, then giggled like a schoolgirl when he called her on it.
And now he could barely sit still. The day dragged on, his focus shot to hell. All he could think about was getting home, putting his wife in front of him, and asking—no, demanding—what the hell she thought she was doing pulling that shit in front of his coworkers.
If Catherine wanted to play games, fine. But she’d better be ready for how Rafe Cameron played them.
Lara felt like she’d aged ten years in a single day. Every class, every period, she’d snuck glances at her phone, expecting at any second to see her dad’s name light up the screen—furious, betrayed, ready to ground her for life. Even in ballet, her pirouettes had turned into clumsy hops, her teacher giving her side-eye as she stumbled across the floor. She couldn’t think about dance, couldn’t think about anything but that cursed glittery lunchbox.
Mason, of course, was the complete opposite. By the time they were home, he was sprawled on the couch in the second living room with two of his football buddies, controllers in hand, hollering at FIFA like his life depended on it. He was all jokes and half-empty soda cans, while Lara sat perched at the edge of the couch, chewing her lip gloss off.
When she spotted the sleek black car pulling into the driveway, her stomach dropped. “Mase,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “He’s here.”
Mason didn’t even pause the game. He just grinned. “Good. Get your phone ready. This is the money shot.”
Her fingers trembled as she opened the camera app, and walked outside, angling it downstairs. But when the front door swung open, nothing happened.
Rafe stepped inside, dropped his keys on the table, and glanced at the football cleats and gear by the door. His eyes flicked to the voices coming from upstairs, and just like that, the fire in him smoothed out.
He wasn’t going to act up with half the team in his house.
Instead, he strode into the kitchen, easy as ever, and kissed Catherine like it was any other Thursday. “Hey, babe.”
“Hey,” she said warmly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Mason’s team’s over. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Rafe murmured, pressing another kiss to her temple. No edge in his voice. No storm brewing.
From the hallway, Lara nearly sagged with relief. Maybe… maybe he hadn’t opened it? Maybe something had happened to the lunchbox—got lost, spilled, thrown away. Maybe this nightmare was over.
She exhaled, her shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. “Why isn't he angry?” she whispered to Mason. “Maybe he didn’t even open it.”
Mason frowned, lowering his controller. “Nah. No way. He had to. Did you—” he narrowed his eyes at her—“did you chicken out and take my shit out?”
Lara’s face flushed hot. “No! I didn’t touch it. I swear.”
Mason leaned back, still frowning, muttering to himself. “Then what the hell…”
But Lara didn’t care. If her Dad was fine, if he was kissing her Mom and acting normal, then she was safe.
Until the boys finally left.
The second the front door shut behind Mason’s teammates, the atmosphere shifted. Rafe’s smile thinned, then dropped entirely. He turned, slow and deliberate, and reached for the glittery lunchbox sitting on the counter.
“Cath,” he said, voice low, even. “We need to talk.”
Catherine glanced up from rinsing dishes, brows lifting in surprise. “About what?”
“Upstairs.” He jerked his head toward the staircase, the lunchbox dangling from his hand like evidence. “Bedroom. Now.”
Catherine blinked, confused but not yet worried. She dried her hands and followed him.
Mason leaned against the doorway, grinning like a cat who’d finally caught the mouse. “Finally,” he muttered under his breath, satisfaction dripping from his tone.
But Lara… Lara’s stomach twisted tighter than ever. Her relief was gone, replaced by ice. If Dad had waited until now to react, then that meant he’d seen everything.
And she wasn’t sure who he was going to be angrier with—their Mom, or them.
Upstairs, the bedroom door clicked shut. Then locked.
Catherine glanced at him, instantly alert. Rafe never locked the door in the middle of the day unless something serious was going on or he couldn’t keep it in his pants any longer.
She stepped closer, sliding her hands up the front of his shirt until they wrapped around his neck. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly, searching his eyes. “Is it Ward? Did he reach out again?”
Rafe shook his head once, but his eyes burned with something darker. His arms came around her waist, pulling her flush against him, one hand sliding lower until it cupped her ass. He squeezed, hard—so hard it made her gasp and whimper, her brows furrowing.
“Something worse,” he muttered, his jaw clenched.
Catherine blinked at him, confused, her breath hitching. “Worse? Rafe, what—?”
He squeezed again, rough, frustration bleeding through his touch. “You think you’re funny?” His voice was low, sharp, dangerous. “Sending me to work with that shit in my lunchbox? In front of my men?”
Catherine’s lips parted, her head tilting as her confusion deepened. “What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” His grip tightened at her waist as he pulled back just enough to stare at her face. “The dog food. The baby food. And the fucking Viagra, Cath. You thought that was cute?”
Her brows shot up, eyes wide. “Wait—what?”
Rafe’s laugh was humorless, bitter. “Don’t play dumb. You really thought you’d embarrass me like that and I wouldn’t say anything? That shit was in front of my colleagues. My colleagues, Catherine.”
She shook her head quickly, her hands tightening on his shoulders. “Rafe, I swear—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But he didn’t believe her. Not yet. His nostrils flared, and the lunchbox he’d set on the bed glinted between them like proof of her guilt.
Catherine pulled away from Rafe, still trying to process his sudden intensity. Her eyes landed on the glittery lunchbox he’d slammed onto the bed. “Wait,” she murmured, reaching for it. She flipped open the lid—and froze.
Inside, everything was laid out exactly as Mason and Lara had planned: the tin of dog food, the jar of baby food, and the little orange pill bottle with the sticky notes. Her mouth fell open.
“It… it was Lara,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “She gave me the lunchbox… she said it was for some TikTok…”
Rafe’s lips twitched, a sharp, incredulous laugh escaping him. “Lara? My little princess? Innocent, perfect little Lara did this?” His hands flexed, gripping the edge of the mattress as disbelief and amusement warred across his face.
Downstairs, Mason leaned toward Lara, nudging her. “Go… go upstairs,” he hissed. “We have to hear this fight.”
“I don’t want to!” Lara whispered, nervously glancing at the staircase.
“Too late!” Mason grabbed her wrist and practically shoved her toward the stairs. “Phone on. Record. Don’t miss it.”
Lara’s fingers fumbled as she turned on her phone and slipped it under the bedroom door, pressing record. She expected yelling, lecturing, maybe some sarcasm—but what she didn’t expect were the sounds of moans, heavy breathing, and sliding across the bed.
Both she and Mason froze, eyes wide. “What the…?” Mason whispered.
Lara yanked her phone back, nearly dropping it. “Oh my god, Mason…”
They both stepped back into the hallway, hearts racing, and bolted down the stairs, eyes locked in horror.
Back in the bedroom, Catherine’s cheek was pressed into the pillow, her sundress bunched high around her hips. Her ass arched up, the fabric wrinkled and riding up as Rafe’s palm came down hard. The smack echoed through the bedroom, heat blooming across her skin.
She gasped, clutching at the sheets, her knuckles white. “Rafe—”
“Don’t,” he cut her off, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating against her spine. Another slap cracked against her ass, harder this time, making her whimper. “You think you can play dumb? Hand me that lunch like it was sweet little notes and salmon bagels?”
Her pussy clenched at his tone, at the stinging heat on her ass. She hated how wet she was getting—hated it, and wanted more.
Rafe leaned over her, one hand fisting in the back of her sundress, the other sliding down her spine. “You wanted me to have lunch, Cath? You should’ve spread yourself open on the counter then.” His mouth was at her ear, hot and rough. “Instead of that bullshit.”
He spanked her again, harder, until her skin was burning, his handprint blooming red against the soft curve of her ass. Her moan was muffled against the pillow, and that only made him smirk.
“Look at you,” he growled, yanking her cheeks apart. The sight made his cock twitch in his slacks. “So wet you’re dripping on the sheets. You like being punished, don’t you? My perfect little housewife taking what I give her.”
Catherine whimpered, her thighs trembling, but she spread them wider for him, surrendering.
“Good girl,” Rafe praised, his voice still edged with danger. He lowered his head, his grip bruising as he held her open, and then his mouth was on her. His tongue slid between her folds, tasting her slick arousal, groaning against her cunt as if it was the only meal he’d ever need.
Catherine cried out, her hips jerking, but his hands pinned her down. He devoured her like he hadn’t eaten all day, his mouth wet and hungry, his nose brushing against her ass as he buried himself deeper.
Rafe’s tongue was merciless, dragging over her folds, dipping into her heat before pulling away again. Catherine’s thighs quivered, her toes curling against the sheets. Every time her body coiled tight, just on the edge, his mouth disappeared, leaving her aching.
She whimpered into the pillow. “Rafe, please—”
He smirked against her slick thigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before slipping two fingers inside her, pumping slow and deep. “Please what? Please let you come? After you handed me dog food in front of half my company?” His tone was sharp, mocking.
Her head jerked back, hair sticking to her flushed face. “It wasn’t—Rafe, it was—”
“A prank?” His laugh was cruel, his pace quickening until she moaned. “That’s your excuse? I’m sweet to you, I take care of you, make sure you don’t have to lift a finger—hell, I brag about you at work—and you repay me with baby food and Viagra?”
She cried out, trying to choke out a protest, but her walls squeezed tight around his fingers, her body betraying her. The slick sound of his hand moving in and out of her filled the room, lewd and humiliating.
Her back arched as she teetered on the edge again, so close she could taste it. But Rafe’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled his fingers out at the last second.
Her orgasm shattered into nothing, leaving her trembling. “Rafe!” she whimpered.
“Shut up.” His hand cracked against her pussy, the sharp sting making her jolt. Wetness splattered onto his palm, and his grin was dark, dangerous. “That’s what you get.”
Catherine buried her face in the pillow, throbbing. Her cunt ached for him, clenching around nothing, desperate.
Rafe dragged his fingers down her swollen folds, slow and taunting, but not giving her what she wanted. “You don’t get to come until I decide you’ve learned your lesson. You’re mine, Catherine. My wife. You don’t prank me. You serve me.”
Her body shuddered at his words, humiliation and desire mixing until she couldn’t tell the difference.
“Now,” he growled, slapping her pussy again, the sound wet and obscene, “beg me properly, or I’ll keep edging you all night.”
Catherine’s thighs trembled as she reached between her legs, desperate to ease the ache. Her fingers brushed her own clit, but before she could press down, Rafe’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist tight.
“Oh no,” he snarled, dragging her hand away and slamming it into the mattress. “You don’t touch yourself unless I say you can. You want to come, you beg for me to make you come. Nobody else.”
Her breath hitched, shame burning through her chest as her body betrayed her with another needy whimper. “Please, Rafe… please touch me. I can’t take it anymore.”
Satisfied, he flipped her onto her back in one rough motion. Catherine’s sundress slipped lower, neckline tugged down by his fist until her breasts spilled out, nipples hard and aching. Rafe’s gaze darkened, his hips grinding against her core, his hard cock straining in his slacks as he dry-humped her ruthlessly.
She gasped, arching into him. “Rafe—”
He leaned in close, his mouth brushing her ear. “Does it look like I need Viagra?” His hand slid up her throat, wrapping firmly around her neck, cutting her breath just enough to make her pulse race.
She shook her head quickly, desperate. “N-no. You don’t. You don’t.”
He smirked, grinding harder, but still refusing to give her what she wanted. “That’s right. So why the fuck would you pack it in my lunch, hm? You think that’s funny? Embarrassing me in front of my people?”
Her lips parted, her voice a broken whisper. “It wasn’t me… it was Lara. She said it was gonna be wholesome—”
Rafe laughed sharply, cutting her off, hips rutting harder against her soaked panties. “Wholesome? That’s what you’re going with?” He tightened his grip on her throat, his cock grinding into her clit through the thin fabric until she whimpered. “If you’d said it was Mason, maybe I’d believe you. That little shit lives for pushing my buttons. But Lara?” He shook his head, sneering. “Don’t insult me.”
“I’m not lying,” she whimpered, her body arching beneath him, desperate for any kind of friction.
Rafe’s grin was cruel, his hips slowing as if to tease her with how close he could give her relief. “You want me to believe you? Convince me.”
Her hand slipped down between them, trembling, sneaking onto the thick bulge in his pants. She stroked him through the fabric, her eyes wide and wet as she begged. “Please, Rafe. Please fuck me. I need you, baby. No one else—just you.”
His cock twitched against her palm, his smirk widening. He leaned closer, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice a dark growl. “Beg harder, Mrs. Cameron. Make me believe it.”
Rafe’s grip on her throat tightened, cutting off just enough air to make Catherine’s vision swim. His cock pulsed under her touch, but he still held back, his smirk cruel.
“Say it,” he ordered, grinding into her soaked panties. “Say what you are.”
Her chest heaved, breasts bouncing with each desperate gasp. “I’m—” Her voice broke into a whimper. “I’m yours. Your perfect little housewife.”
Rafe’s laugh rumbled low in his chest. “That’s right. Mine. And my perfect housewife doesn’t hand me dog food in front of my partners.” He yanked her dress aside, the fabric ripping under his fist, and pushed his cock against her drenched entrance. “She spreads herself for me.”
She cried out as the thick head pressed inside, her walls stretching around him. The sudden fullness made her toes curl, her fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groaned, bottoming out with one rough thrust. He didn’t give her time to adjust, pulling out halfway and slamming back in, the bedframe rattling with the force.
Catherine sobbed, pleasure spiking through the humiliation. “Rafe, please—”
“Please what?” He snapped his hips hard, the sound of wet skin slapping filling the room. His hand clamped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Please fuck you? Please remind you who owns this pussy?”
“Yes!” she wailed, her voice breaking as her body bowed beneath him.
Rafe snarled, fucking her raw, punishing her with every thrust. “You don’t prank me, Catherine. You don’t humiliate me. You take care of me. You spread those pretty legs and let me ruin you because that’s your job.” His teeth grazed her ear, his voice a harsh whisper. “That’s what makes you my wife.”
Her cunt clenched desperately around him, the filthy words unraveling her. “I’m yours, Rafe—yours, always—”
He growled deep in his chest, pulling out only to slam back in harder, faster, until her nails dug welts into his back. His hand found her clit, slapping it once before rubbing harsh, brutal circles.
“Then come for me,” he demanded. “Come for your husband. Let me feel how sorry you are.”
Catherine shattered with a cry, her whole body convulsing around his cock as he fucked her through the orgasm. Rafe groaned, thrusts turning ragged as he spilled inside her, grinding deep until she was trembling, wrecked, and filled with him.
He kissed her throat, still holding her pinned down. “That’s better, baby.”
Catherine’s chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, her skin glowing with sweat, her hair plastered to her face. She tried to roll to the side, to catch her breath, but Rafe’s big hand slammed her flat against the mattress.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice was gravel, dark with lust. He spread her thighs again, his cock still hard and slick with both their cum. “I’m not done with you.”
Her lips parted in a broken whimper, but before she could protest, Rafe was inside her again—rough, relentless, his hips snapping with bruising force.
“You know what I told the guys at work today?” His breath was hot against her ear, his thrusts unforgiving. “I told them my wife was perfect. That she cooks for me, takes care of me, never lies to me. That she makes my life so damn easy.” His hand wrapped tight around her throat, squeezing until her moan came out strangled. “And then you send me off with that fucking lunchbox.”
Her nails dug crescents into his biceps, her body arching helplessly into his. She couldn’t fight the pleasure—her cunt clenching greedily around him even as her chest burned from his grip.
That night, Rafe owned her completely.
He fucked her against the dresser, her back pressed hard against the wood until she knew she’d see bruises in the morning. He lifted her leg high, her toes curling against the polished surface, her pussy stretched wide around his cock as he pounded her. His eyes locked on hers, his expression sharp, punishing. “You’re mine. Say it.”
Later, he bent her over the vanity, one fist knotted in her hair, forcing her to watch her own ruined reflection. Her makeup smeared, face wet with tears and sweat, her mouth open on ragged sobs as his hips slapped against her ass. The mirror fogged with their breath, rattling each time he drove into her. He bit down on her shoulder, hard enough to leave his mark, before slapping her ass until the skin glowed.
Her cunt was sore, raw, drenched, but he didn’t stop. He flipped her back onto the bed, her sundress still clinging wrinkled and ruined to her body, the skirt sticky with dried cum. He dragged her onto his lap, his cock sliding back inside as he forced her to ride him.
Catherine whimpered, her legs trembling, her body on the edge of collapse. Her breasts spilled from the neckline of her dress, bouncing with each desperate grind.
“You feel that?” Rafe groaned, one hand gripping her hip, the other squeezing her throat. “That’s me filling you up. Again. And again. I’ll breed you until you can’t walk straight. Until you remember your only job is taking care of me and looking after my babies.”
Her moans broke into sobs, but she clung to him, nails scoring his skin as her body obeyed, riding him even as every nerve screamed from overstimulation. His teeth caught her lip, bruising her with a kiss as filthy as his thrusts.
Rafe fucked her until her cunt ached and her body gave out, and still, he didn’t let her stop—forcing orgasm after orgasm until Catherine was nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess in his lap.
The house was strangely quiet, and for the first time in years, it wasn’t Catherine humming in the kitchen or Rafe barking at someone to hurry up. The sunlight streamed through the big windows, glinting off the polished counter where Bradley was stacking slices of bread and smearing peanut butter with far more care than usual.
The three of them sat in silence, the clink of the butter knife against the plate far too loud.
“So…” Bradley finally broke it, glancing from Mason to Lara as he dropped another sandwich onto a napkin. “What happened last night? Why didn’t Mom make dinner? And why isn’t Dad yelling at us to get in the car?”
Mason slouched back in his chair, pretending not to care, but the smirk twitching on his lips gave him away. He flicked his eyes at Lara, who looked like she hadn’t slept a wink.
Lara avoided her brother’s gaze, clutching her phone in her lap, her stomach knotted. “They… um… probably just wanted a night to themselves,” she muttered. Her voice cracked, and she quickly took a sip of orange juice.
Bradley frowned, suspicious. “Yeah, but—since when do they just disappear? And why aren’t they up now?”
Mason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his tone too casual. “Trust me, bro. They’re up. Just not the way you think.”
Lara’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “Mason!” she hissed, kicking him under the table.
He bit back a laugh, rubbing his shin where she’d nailed him. “What? I’m just saying…” He leaned back again, folding his arms behind his head, smug as ever.
Bradley looked between them, narrowing his eyes. “You two know something. Don’t you?”
The weight of his stare made Lara squirm. She and Mason exchanged a loaded glance—hers anxious, his wickedly entertained.
Upstairs, the faint creak of the bed frame sounded again, muffled through the ceiling. Lara’s cheeks flushed hot as she dropped her gaze to her plate. Mason just smirked wider.
“Nope,” Mason said, grabbing a sandwich from Bradley’s pile. “Don’t know a thing.”
But Lara’s silence said otherwise.
Lara could barely sit still, her leg bouncing under the table as her eyes flicked toward the stairs. Her stomach was tied in knots, the weight of the night before pressing on her chest. Mason, meanwhile, sat back cool as anything, picking at the crust of his sandwich with a lazy grin.
“You look like you’re about to puke,” he muttered under his breath, smirking at his sister.
“Shut up,” Lara hissed, glancing at Bradley, who was eyeing them suspiciously.
Bradley pushed back from the table with a scrape of the chair legs, his brows drawn tight. “You two definitely know something. And if Mom and Dad aren’t up in five minutes, I’m going to check. I’m not getting detention because they overslept.”
At the end of the table, Maisie had her cheek pressed against her folded arms, fast asleep in her uniform, hair still in messy braids.
Lara opened her mouth, but before she could stop him, Bradley strode toward the stairs.
Then the front door opened.
All three of them jerked their heads up, expecting to see Catherine—but it was Rafe. He looked half put together for work: dress pants and belt on, shirt half-buttoned, no tie. His hair was damp from the shower, a shadow of stubble on his jaw.
“Why the hell are you all sitting around?” he asked, snatching Bradley’s carefully stacked plate of sandwiches right off the table. “You’re gonna miss the bell. Bags by the door, let’s go.”
Bradley blinked. “Wait—what about m—”
“Mom's okay,” Rafe cut him off, already turning for the stairs with the stolen food. “Car. Now.”
Bradley scowled, confused, but Mason just snorted into his juice. Lara looked pale, staring at her dad’s retreating back.
Upstairs, Catherine stood naked in front of the walk-in-closet mirror, hair tangled, body aching. Every step made her wince, her thighs trembling, her skin patterned with dark handprints blooming into bruises. She reached for a dress but faltered, limping as she tried to tug it over her head.
Behind her, Rafe sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her like a man with all the time in the world. He set the plate of sandwiches beside him, leaning back on his elbows.
“Careful, baby,” he drawled, eyes drinking in the marks across her thighs and ass as she moved. “You’re walking like you’ve been fucked all night.”
Her cheeks flushed hot, though her voice was sharp. “Because I was, Rafe. You didn’t let me sleep.”
His smirk deepened. “And you loved every second.”
She shot him a glare as she walked toward him, fumbling with the zipper of her dress. “The kids are downstairs. I’m supposed to be getting them off to school, not—” She winced as she bent for her shoes.
“Not limping around like a wreck?” he teased. He reached over, tugging her wrist until she stumbled into his lap. “Sit down before you fall down.”
“Rafe—” she started, but his hand was already sliding up her bruised thigh.
He plucked a sandwich off the plate, holding it to her lips with a smirk. “Eat. You need your strength. Don’t want you passing out next time I bend you over the vanity.”
Catherine chewed slowly, wincing more from her sore body than from the food itself. After the second bite she wrinkled her nose, setting the sandwich back on the plate.
“Ugh. Rafe, please never step in the kitchen again.” She gave him a tired glare. “This is… terrible.”
Rafe chuckled, already taking a big bite out of the sandwich she’d rejected. “Didn’t make it.” He chewed, grinning around the mouthful. “Stole it off Brad. Kid’s better at this than you, babe.”
Her jaw dropped, scandalized. “You stole your son’s breakfast?”
He smirked, swallowing. “Better than the shit you packed for me yesterday.”
She swatted his shoulder, cheeks flushing pink. “Rafe—”
But her expression shifted, serious now, her eyes searching his face. “I wasn’t lying, you know. It was Lara. She gave me that lunchbox. Said it was for TikTok.”
Rafe slowed, the smirk easing just a little as he looked at her. She’d been saying the same thing since last night, stubborn in her defense. And Catherine wasn’t the type to double down on a lie—not when it came to him.
He leaned back, thoughtful. “Lara, huh?”
“Yes,” Catherine said firmly, rubbing her sore thighs as she adjusted on his lap. “She said it was supposed to be wholesome. I didn’t even look inside, Rafe. I just handed it to you.”
His jaw tightened, though a chuckle slipped out. “Still doesn’t make sense. My princess doesn’t even like hearing me say ‘hell.’ And now she’s calling me a bitch and tossing Viagra in my bag?” His brows knit. “Where the fuck would she even get that?”
“She loves you, baby,” Catherine reminded him softly, brushing her fingers through his hair. “She’d never mean to hurt you. Maybe the boys— Mason had something to do with it.”
Rafe grunted, considering. Mason he believed. Lara… his little girl. It didn’t sit right.
Catherine leaned forward, kissing his jaw. “Stop scowling. Help me get ready, or the kids are really going to be late.”
Rafe sighed, setting the plate aside. He grabbed her brush from the vanity, guiding her to sit between his knees. He ran the bristles slowly through her tangled hair, his free hand skimming over her bruised shoulder.
“You know I didn’t mean to go that hard last night. Sorry, baby,” he murmured against her neck, pressing soft kisses where he’d bitten her raw.
Her lips curved in a secret smile, eyes half-lidded as the brush glided through her hair. “Don’t apologize. I liked it.”
Rafe’s smirk deepened, eyes glinting with memory. “You always say that,” he murmured, dragging the brush down the length of her hair. “Back when you used to push me off the rails every damn time. Remember?”
Catherine’s cheeks flushed, but she let out a soft laugh. “You’re the one who can’t control himself.”
“Not with you,” he said simply, kissing the top of her head.
For a moment, the morning felt peaceful—her leaning into his touch, him brushing out her hair like they had all the time in the world.
Then Rafe hummed low in his chest. “Still doesn’t change the fact that someone slipped dog food and Viagra into my lunch.” He tugged lightly at a strand of her hair, his tone darkening. “If that was Lara, she better not be stupid enough to post it on TikTok.”
Catherine shook her head. “She didn’t even film your reaction, Rafe. She probably won’t. It was dumb, but… I don’t think she meant anything by it.”
“Still,” he muttered, setting the brush aside and helping her slip her sundress straps back over her bruised shoulders. “Princess better not test me.”
He kissed her once more, slow and tender, before heading downstairs. Catherine was still fastening her earrings when she heard his footsteps fade.
Rafe was on his way to the garage, keys in hand, when Lara stopped him in the hallway. She looked nervous, her phone clutched tight in her hand.
“Daddy,” she whispered, glancing back toward the kitchen before stepping closer. “It was me and Mason.”
Rafe froze. His brows drew together, that icy Cameron stare settling on her. “What?”
Lara’s lips trembled, but she shoved her phone into his hand. The video played—her and Mason giggling as they packed the lunch, slipping in the cursed items. Then a cut to Catherine, clueless, handing over the lunchbox as Rafe leaned down to kiss her goodbye.
Rafe’s jaw tightened.
Lara’s voice broke in a rush. “I wasn’t gonna show anyone else. I swear. It was just supposed to be funny.”
He was about to close the video when the last clip rolled—Lara holding her phone low under the master bedroom door, Mason’s voice whispering in the background. Then the unmistakable sound of Catherine’s moans. The squeak of the mattress. The rhythmic thud of skin on skin.
Rafe’s chest went tight, blood rushing hot through his veins. He snapped his gaze down to Lara, who looked as if she wanted to melt into the floor.
“What. The fuck. Is this?” His voice was low, dangerous.
Lara’s stomach twisted as the last clip played, the sounds bleeding out of the phone like nails dragging down glass. She wished she could rip it back, smash it, anything to make it disappear.
“Dad…” Her voice cracked, her cheeks burning hotter than fire. “I didn’t mean for it to be like that. I swear.” Her hands shook as she wrung them together, eyes glossy. “I just… I just wanted to do a nice video. You know, with the salmon bagel and the protein bar—like a cute, wholesome TikTok. That’s what I wanted.”
Rafe’s jaw flexed, his stare cutting through her like steel.
“Mason—” Lara’s words tumbled out, desperate. “He’s the one who wanted to get back at you. Because you grounded him for taking your dirt bike to impress that stupid girl. He said if we made it a prank, it would be funny. I didn’t—” She choked, covering her face with her hands. “I didn’t want to disrespect you. Not you, not Mom.”
Her voice broke on the last words.
Rafe inhaled sharply through his nose, his chest rising and falling. Every instinct in him screamed to roar, to tear the house apart until both kids learned their lesson. But Lara wasn’t Mason. Lara was his little girl, his princess—the one he’d always let get away with too much because she had his heart in the palm of her hand.
He crouched down slowly, fingers gripping her wrists to gently pull her hands away from her face. Her tear-streaked cheeks and trembling lips gutted him more than any prank ever could.
“You wanted to do something nice for me?” His voice was rough, but quiet.
She nodded frantically, lower lip wobbling. “Yes. I promise. I told Mason that putting all that other stuff in was a mistake. I swear, Daddy.”
Rafe exhaled, dragging his palm down his face as he tried to contain the rage boiling in his blood. Not at her—but at Mason. Always Mason.
“Where’s your dickhead of a brother?” he asked finally, his tone cutting but controlled.
“Garage,” she whispered, voice shaking. “With his bag.”
Rafe’s mouth pressed into a hard line. He pushed himself up to his full height, towering over her, but his hand came down briefly to smooth her hair, a fleeting show of softness.
“You stay right here, princess. Calm down, we'll wait for you in the car.” His tone left no room for argument, but it wasn’t shouted—it was tight restraint, the way only Rafe Cameron could pull off when it came to his little girl.
Then he turned on his heel, shoulders broad and tense, stalking toward the garage where Mason was waiting—clueless to the storm about to break over him.
The garage was its usual chaos—gear bags, cleats, bikes shoved against the wall. Mason was leaning against the door of Rafe’s SUV, smirking as he nudged Maisie’s arm where she was dozing off in a folding chair.
“Wake up, M's,” Mason teased in a sing-song voice. “You’re gonna drool all over Dad’s toolbox.”
Bradley, already strapped into his backpack, rolled his eyes and focused on lacing his sneakers tighter. He didn’t even look up.
That’s when the door slammed open.
Rafe’s footsteps were heavy, sharp, each one echoing like a warning shot. Bradley stiffened. Mason looked up, smirk already forming. “Finally. We thought—”
“Outside,” Rafe cut him off, voice like a whip. He grabbed Mason by the back of his shirt and yanked him off the SUV, dragging him toward the side door.
“Whoa, Dad, chill—” Mason laughed nervously, stumbling after him.
But the second the door shut behind them, the laugh died. Rafe spun him around, shoving him back against the siding of the house so hard Mason’s breath hitched.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Rafe’s voice was a roar now, the kind that rattled bone. “You think it’s funny to humiliate me in front of my coworkers? You think it’s cute to drag your sister into your bullshit because you can’t take a punishment like a man?”
Mason’s grin faltered, but he tried to play it off, shoulders hitching in a cocky shrug. “It was just a joke—”
Rafe slammed his hand flat against the wall by Mason’s head, making him flinch. “A joke? Viagra, Mason? Dog food? Making your sister hand it over like it was her mother’s idea?” His jaw clenched, eyes burning. “Do you even think before you pull this shit, or are you just that fucking dumb?”
Mason swallowed hard, shifting under the weight of his father’s glare. “I—”
“No.” Rafe jabbed a finger at his chest, cutting him off. “You don’t get to talk right now. You embarrassed me, you disrespected your mom, and you dragged your sister into this shitshow. That’s not a prank, Mason. That’s you being a selfish, dickheaded little boy.”
For once, Mason didn’t have a comeback. His frat-boy smirk was gone, his throat bobbing as he looked anywhere but at his father.
Rafe leaned in close, his voice dropping, deadly quiet. “And if you ever drag Lara into your bullshit again—ever—I will make you regret it. Do you hear me?”
Mason nodded quickly, muttering, “Yes, sir.”
Rafe straightened, still seething, his hand raking down his face as he forced himself to breathe. He’d expected Mason to pull some stunt after the dirt bike mess. But this? This was a whole new line crossed.
Rafe had his hand clamped around the back of Mason’s neck, steering him toward the garage door. His jaw was still locked tight, fury running hot through his veins. He was ready to shove Mason back inside when he caught it—low muttering, sharp words dripping from Mason’s mouth.
“Always me,” Mason grumbled, scuffing his sneaker against the concrete. “Always my fault. Always the one taking the fall.”
Rafe froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned his head, his grip on Mason’s neck tightening. “What did you just say?”
Mason shifted, eyes darting anywhere but his father’s face. “Nothing.”
“The hell it was nothing,” Rafe snapped. He yanked Mason back around to face him. “Say it again. Out loud.”
Mason clenched his jaw, lips pressed into a thin line. But Rafe’s stare cut into him, unrelenting, and finally the words tumbled out.
“I said it’s always me!” Mason’s voice cracked louder now, frustration bursting through. “You never go after Lara, or Brad, or Maisie—it’s always me! I’m the one you drag outside, I’m the one you yell at, I’m the one you ground for weeks. You embarrassed me in front of my friends when you caught me with the dirt bike—”
“Because you stole my bike,” Rafe shot back, stepping in closer. “You took it without asking. You could’ve wrecked it, Mason—you could’ve wrecked yourself.”
“I didn’t scratch it!” Mason’s voice broke with desperation. “I was fine, the bike was fine, but you acted like I totaled the damn thing. You made me stand there like some little kid while you ripped into me in front of everyone.”
Rafe’s chest rose and fell, nostrils flaring. “You are a little kid. You think you’re grown because you can mouth off and sneak around, but you’re not. You don’t get to act like a man if you can’t take responsibility for your shit.”
Mason’s fists balled at his sides, eyes wet with angry tears he refused to blink away. “I’m the oldest! But you treat me like I’m the youngest. Like I’m the screw-up. Lara bats her eyes at you, and you let her get away with everything, but me? You jump on me for every little thing I do.”
Rafe’s lips pressed into a hard line, his silence heavier than a shout.
Mason laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You don’t even see it, do you? You’ve already picked favorites. It’s always Lara. She’s your princess, Bradley’s the golden boy, Maisie’s the baby—what does that make me? The fuck-up?”
The words hung between them, raw and ugly. Mason’s chest heaved, his voice cracking on the last word.
Rafe stared at him, his face unreadable for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw ticking as if he was holding back everything he wanted to say. Then, finally, his voice came out low and dangerous.
“You think I’m hard on you because I don’t give a shit? No, Mase. I’m hard on you because you’re supposed to be the example. You’re supposed to be better. And every time you pull this reckless, selfish crap, you prove me right—you prove you’re not ready to be treated like a man.”
Mason’s throat worked as he swallowed, but he didn’t say anything. His eyes darted away, shame flickering across his face even as his jaw stayed tight.
Rafe took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You wanna be grown? Then act like it. Until then, don’t you dare whine about being treated like a kid when you pull stunts like this.”
Rafe’s hand stayed clamped on Mason’s shoulder as he shoved open the garage door, steering him back inside. Bradley glanced up from the bench, brows lifting when he caught the tension between them, but said nothing. Maisie, still half-asleep, stirred at the sound, mumbling something incoherent as her head lolled against her backpack.
“Get in the car,” Rafe ordered, voice clipped.
Bradley obeyed without question, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Mason dragged his feet but climbed into the back seat, slamming the door harder than necessary. Lara was already buckled in, staring down at her lap, cheeks red from guilt.
Rafe helped Maisie into the car and slid behind the wheel, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whitened. For a moment, he didn’t start the engine. He just stared straight ahead, jaw working.
Because in Mason—slouched, sullen, chewing on his anger instead of spitting it out—Rafe saw himself. The same recklessness. The same bone-deep defiance. That itch to prove something, even if it meant burning down everything around you.
It rattled him more than he wanted to admit.
Rafe wanted him to be better. To grow up without the weight of Ward Cameron’s shadow, without the mistakes that had nearly destroyed Rafe’s own life. He wanted Mason to learn without scars, to have the fire but not let it consume him.
But as he looked at his son’s reflection in the rearview mirror—jaw tight, eyes stubborn and wet—Rafe’s throat went dry.
How the hell was he supposed to say that? How was he supposed to tell Mason that the very reason he came down on him harder than the others wasn’t because he loved him less… but because he couldn’t stand to watch him become another version of himself?
The words sat heavy on his tongue, but Rafe swallowed them. He wasn’t his old man—he wouldn’t break his son with silence. But he wasn’t sure yet how to bridge the gap either.
So he turned the key, the engine roaring to life. “Seatbelts on,” he muttered, eyes forward. “We’re late.”
The car filled with the sounds of buckles clicking, Maisie yawning, Bradley fiddling with his phone. Mason stayed silent, arms crossed tight.
And as they pulled out of the driveway, Rafe told himself he’d find the words—someday. Before it was too late.