Their attention locked onto Elena.
And then her eyes changed.
For the first time since she’d walked out of that hell, something sparked there. Not joy—not yet—but recognition. Relief. A fragile flicker of life that nearly brought me to my knees again.
The man at the center of them moved forward.
He carried himself like a king in exile—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair swept back from a face carved in hard lines and harder resolve.
His presence warped the space around him.
Even I—who had faced warlords, executioners, men who sold cities like currency—felt the gravity of him.
He didn’t glance at me.
Not even to acknowledge my existence.
He stopped in front of Elena, his voice low, controlled, deadly calm.
“We’ll make him pay.” Steel wrapped in velvet.
He extended his hand.
She took it without hesitation.
That single movement shattered something primal inside my chest.
She stepped closer to him—into his orbit—her shoulders loosening, her posture softening in a way I had never been allowed to witness.
Her body leaned toward his, instinctively, as though she had finally found solid ground after months of freefall.
Like a flower turning toward the sun.
Something feral tore loose inside me.
I surged to my feet, rage and terror colliding violently in my veins. “That’s my wife.”
The words ripped out of me in a guttural snarl, raw and possessive.
My fists clenched so hard the healing bones in my right hand screamed in protest.
The man finally looked at me.
Just once.
His gaze was cold, assessing, utterly unimpressed. The faintest curve touched his mouth—not amusement. Judgment.
“She was,” he replied evenly. “Before you destroyed her.”
Each word landed like a hammer.
There was no anger in his voice. No need for it.
His words were clean, surgical. Each syllable cut precisely where it was meant to.
With a gentle pressure at Elena’s back—possessive without being rough—he began guiding her toward the middle Urus.
Something animal ripped through my restraint.
