"I don't care." Sean's grip tightens. "I don't care about your reasons. I don't care about your employer, if that’s what you were about to start explaining. I don't care about anything except the fact that you came near what's mine."
The man's face is turning red. "Can't… breathe..."
"Good,” he snarls, and another wave of cold washes over me.My wife. What’s mine. The possessive violence in Sean’s voice and face is terrifying—but I feel that strange sensation washing through me, too, something dizzying and unsettling that I don’t understand.
"Sean—" I start, but he doesn't even glance at me.
"Go upstairs, Maeve."
"But—" My voice quivers.
"Go. Upstairs." Each word is clipped, final. "Now."
I should listen. Should leave. But I can't seem to move.
Sean drags the man away from the wall, toward the front door. The man tries to fight back, swinging wildly, but Sean moves effortlessly, every step controlled and lethal. He blocks the punch easily and drives his fist into the man's stomach hard enough that I hear the air rush out of him.
Then he's hauling him out the door, down the front steps, toward the driveway. And I'm following, despite my husband’s orders.
I don't even think about it, my feet carrying me after them even as my brain is screaming at me to stay inside, to let Sean handle this, to not see whatever is about to happen.
But I can't stop.
I need to know who it is that I really married.
I reach the edge of the driveway just as Sean throws the man to the ground.
"Please—" the man gasps, holding up his hands. "I was just doing my job?—"
Sean kicks him in the ribs. Hard. The sound it makes—bone and flesh and impact—turns my stomach.
"Your job." Sean's voice is conversational now, which somehow makes it worse. "Your job was to collect a debt. Not to threaten my wife. Not to invade her space. Not to suggest that she could pay in ways that don't involve money."
He punctuates each point with another kick. The man curls into a ball, trying to protect himself, but Sean is relentless.
"Sean!" I don't recognize my own voice. "Sean, stop!"
He doesn't hear me. Or he doesn't care. The look on his face is feral, animalistic. Violence oozes from him. Even if I hadn’t known anything about Sean at all, I would know he’s a killer, seeing this.
He crouches down, grabbing the man by his collar and pulling him up. Blood is streaming from the man's nose, his mouth. One eye is already swelling shut.
"You're going to go back to your employer," Sean says, his voice still terrifyingly calm, "and you're going to tell him that Desmond Connelly's debts died with Desmond Connelly. That if he has a problem with that, he can take it up with the Council. And if anyone—anyone—comes near my wife again, I will kill them. Do you understand?"
The man nods frantically, blood bubbling from his split lip.
"I can't hear you."
"I understand," the man chokes out. "I understand."
"Good."
Sean releases him, and the man scrambles backward, trying to get his feet under him. He manages to stand, swaying, and starts stumbling toward a car parked out front.
"Oh, and one more thing." Sean’s voice is still terrifyingly calm, as if they’re discussing the weather or a dinner later, something perfectly normal between friends.
The man stops and turns. A split second later, Sean's fist connects with his jaw with a crack that echoes across the property. The man goes down like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the pavement hard.
This time, he doesn't get up.
