I was supposed to observe him. Not… absorb him.
Rafe Calderon is six feet of pure rage, broken mirrors, and bullshifter DNA. The Brotherhood calls him Toro. I call him a walking HR violation with cheekbones. He growls, I analyze.
He threatens, I document. Then he shifts mid-therapy and pins a man to the wall with his horns. Now I’m bleeding light. Glowing in places that should not glow.
And waking up to a tattooed monster guarding my bed like I’m the last piece of peace he’s ever seen. Apparently I’m a latent witch. He’s a cursed killer.
And together we’re the spark that could burn the Pact to the ground. We are not bonding. We are not soulmating. We are surviving. Skin to skin. Pulse to pulse. Some women journal through trauma.
I tend to ride it out. Literally.
