And I stop breathing.
Defiant. Bold. Brilliant. Even now.
Even battered and bloodied.
Even when her lip is split, when blood trickles down her jaw, when a bruise is blooming across her cheekbone like some cruel, poisonous flower.
Even when the dress she bought before she knew where I was taking her—the one she’d twirled around in while laughing this morning—is torn and dirty.
Even then, she shines.
My heart seizes in my chest, a violent, wrenching clench that knocks the breath from my lungs.
Fuck. Thank God.
She’s alive.
And she’s never looked more beautiful.
But I wasn’t here when she needed me.
The realization hits like a blade to the gut. It tears something fragile inside me wide open—a thing I’ve kept locked away for years.
The soft part of me.
The human part.
The man who dared believe he could protect her from all of this.
It rips.
And what pours out is not a man.
It’s the monster I’ve spent my entire life repressing. The one I buried under strategy and composure, beneath charm and diplomacy, behind clever plans and calm smiles.
The monster I swore I would never unleash. Not ever.
But now?
Now that control is dust at my feet?
Now that I’ve seen my wife tied to a chair like prey in my uncle’s pathetic imitation of a throne room?
The human in me is gone.
“Cecilia,” I whisper, except it’s not a whisper at all—it’s a vow.
Violence wrapped in velvet.
A promise of retribution drenched in devotion.
A prayer carved from fury and love and the absolute certainty that she will be safe again, even if I have to burn everything on this fucking island to ash.
She lifts her head fully at the sound of my voice.
Her breath shudders.
Her eyes are glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears.
