By the time I round the last curve of the path and see them, I’m fucking livid.
Three of my men.
Standing near the rocks.
They’re not looking out for possible threats. Not assessing the layout. Or keeping time.
No, their heads are turned, their posture lazy.
One of them fucking smirks.
The second says something and adjusts his dick.
I go still.
Deadly still.
Then, I follow their line of sight.
And I see her.
Christ.
I see her.
She’s rising from the water like a goddess born from seafoam and sin, the sun dripping off her curves like honey.
The bikini is so miniscule it’s nearly invisible.
The top barely conceals her pierced nipples.
The bottoms—fuck, those cheeky little briefs—ride high on her hips and bare her ass like an invitation only I should see.
Her body is inked and golden, all soft curves and dangerous edges, and she walks with that natural grace that drives me out of my mind.
And they’re looking.
They’re fucking laughing. Wanting. Coveting what’s mine.
I see red.
My vision narrows to one thing—punishment.
I walk straight up to the smirking asshole—the one still grabbing his crotch—and I let my fist fly.
Right to his throat.
The crack is satisfying.
He collapses to his knees, choking, gasping for air.
The others snap to attention like the well-trained bastards they are.
I don’t stop. Don’t spare them a glance.
Cecilia is walking toward me now.
Wet. Glowing. Frowning in confusion.
