It’s soundproofed—built for discipline, sparring, tactical drills.
Or in this case, well-deserved executions.
I step inside, and the room hushes.
Michail stands off to the side, arms crossed, stone-faced.
My other men—the ones stationed on this particular island domicile—line the walls, watching silently. I don’t need to tell them why they’re here.
They already know. They heard about the punch. They know my anger.
In the center of the room, the three idiots are standing, barely.
One’s got a hand at his throat still—he’s the one I hit on the beach.
He glares at me with eyes that don’t know when to shut the fuck up.
Good.
Let him look.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask, voice like ice.
“Sir,” one of them stammers, stepping forward like he’s about to plead his case. “Apologies?—”
I strike before the second syllable leaves his mouth. My boot lands in his stomach with precision and force.
He folds and hits the mat hard, coughing.
I don’t blink.
“You had one job today,” I say calmly, addressing all three. “Watch her. Protect her. Report back. That’s it.”
“Sir,” another one pipes up—wrong move, “With respect, we did not know. She’s just a woman?—”
Just a woman.
The phrase clangs through my skull like a goddamn gong.
Rage blinds me.
I lunge.
The blade comes free from my belt and lands at his throat before his dumb mouth finishes moving.
“Say that again,” I hiss, pressing the edge into the soft skin just under his jaw. “Go on. Say it.”
His eyes go wide. Blood drips from where the tip of my blade pierces his skin.
“S-sir, I didn’t mean?—”
“You said she’s just a woman,” I repeat, quieter now. “Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You assumed. You thought you were allowed to look, to think, to touch, perhaps?”
“N-no! We didn’t touch!”
“No, you didn’t. So what then? You thought she was available to you? A perk? A toy?”
He swallows hard.
