The thought should disturb me. But right now, I embrace it.
If someone's threatening them, I'll need every violent instinct I have.
The run back takes fifteen minutes that feel like hours. By the time I reach the farm, I'm breathing hard and my shirt is soaked with sweat and blood where the wound has reopened.
The Mercedes is parked in front of the house. Driver's door open like someone got out in a hurry.
I slow down, approaching quietly. My body knows how to do this—how to move silently, how to assess the situation, how to become a predator instead of prey.
The front door is closed. No sounds from outside. But through the kitchen window, I can see movement.
I creep closer, staying low, using the angle of the sun to keep my shadow from giving me away.
Then I see them.
Isabella backed against the kitchen table. A man in front of her, his hand on her wrist. He's tall, well-dressed, handsome in a polished way. And he's touching her like he owns her.
Like he has the fucking right to put his hands on Isabella.
The rage that floods through me is instant and absolute. Not the slow burn I've felt before. This is white-hot, blinding, all-consuming.
She’s mine.
The word screams through my head with such force it's almost audible.
And he's touching her.
I don't remember moving. Don't remember crossing the yard or opening the door. But suddenly I'm inside, and they both turn to look at me.
Isabella's face floods with relief and terror in equal measure.
The man—Draco, it has to be Draco—looks merely annoyed. Like I'm an interruption to his important schedule.
"You must be the boyfriend," he says, not releasing Isabella's wrist. "Right on time. We were just discussing you."
"Let her go." My voice doesn't sound like mine. Or the one I’ve come to know as mine. It's colder. Deadlier. The voice of someone who's issued this command before and been obeyed.
Or killed when they weren't.
Draco smiles. "No, I don't think so. Isabella and I are having a private conversation. About our daughter. About our family. None of which concerns you. You should leave while you’re still breathing."
"Let. Her. Go."
He studies me for a moment, taking in my work clothes, my sweat-soaked shirt, my blistered hands. I can see him dismissing me. Just some laborer. Some nobody who got lucky with a vulnerable woman.
"Listen," he says, his tone condescending. "I understand. You've been playing house here, taking advantage of Isabella's situation. But that's over now. I'm her—"
I move.
One moment I'm by the door. The next I'm across the kitchen, my hand around his throat, slamming him against the wall so hard the dishes rattle.
He drops Isabella's wrist, clawing at my arm. His eyes go wide with shock.
"Lupo, don't—" Isabella starts, but I'm not listening.
I lean in close to Draco, close enough to see the fear starting to bloom in his eyes.
"You don't touch her," I say quietly. "You don't look at her. You don't speak to her. And you sure as hell don't threaten to take her daughter."
