His hand fisted the back of my dress. Crushed me tighter to his chest.
The leash buried inside my ribs burned hotter.
Alive.
Sacred.
Silent.
Wolfe didn’t speak. Didn’t shout. He just held me. While the world burned around us. While Royal and Loyal closed ranks. While the hotel howled into the night.
Even ruined, even touched, even wrecked—I was still Wolfe's.
And he still chose me.
21
WOLFE
He camein like he owned the air.
Keys hit the counter.
Fridge opens.
A beer cracks.
He drinks.
Belches.
Turns.
I stand from the shadows—black-on-black. Legs steady. Breath slower than his heartbeat will ever be again.
He freezes mid-step. His eyes widen.
“What the?—”
I cross the tile. Three steps. Grip his jaw. Slam the back of his skull into the drywall so hard plaster cracks behind his spine. He gags on breath. Eyes water.
“How the fuck did you find me?”
I don't answer. I drive my fist into his ribs hard enough to make him drop the beer can. It hits the floor with a wet thud, foam spraying his sneakers. Didn't matter. He was already dead.
I felt something give under my knuckles. A wet crunch.
“You touched her,” I said. Not loud. Not angry. Just final.
I punched again. His cheekbone split under the blow. Teeth clacked together. Blood sprayed.
“You put your fucking hand on her.”
Another punch. His head snapped sideways. Nose shattered under the pressure. My glove slick with him now.
I didn't stop. Didn't pause. Didn't need answers. This wasn't interrogation. This was prayer. This was the silence between her thighs turned into violence beneath my hands.
“You grabbed her breast.”
