And God—he looks unfair.
Tall. Broad. Effortlessly powerful in that quiet way that makes people move without realizing why. His face is calm. Perfectly composed. Like this is just another moment in his day. The bespoke suit—dark, flawless, and clearly expensive—should makehim look untouchable, like the diamond dealer he is. Instead, it just makes him look like a predator who knows he’s about to kill.
But his eyes—
The rage there is unmistakable.
It’s masked. Controlled. Locked down behind years of discipline and restraint. He is an entire man built on control, and to see it fraying, burning like this—overme—is a shockwave that travels straight to my core.
But it’s there.
And it’s terrifying.
And intoxicating.
The air around him feels charged, electric, as he cuts through the crowd. He isn't rushing, yet he covers the distance with a smooth, terrifying certainty. Every muscle in my body tenses, not in fear, but in anticipation. This is my husband, the man who wants to learn every aspect of me, and right now, every aspect of him is focused on protecting his claim.
Heat curls low in my stomach at the sight of him walking toward us like the world will bend if he asks it to. Like whatever happens next is already decided. The possessive heat radiating off him is a physical entity, striking me harder than any physical touch could. The thought thatheis the reason for this beautiful, devastating storm of temper makes my breath catch, and I want nothing more than to feel those controlled, angry hands on me, not Elliott.
Elliott still doesn’t see him.
Still doesn’t realize he’s about to make the biggest mistake of his life.
My pulse hammers. My mouth goes dry.
I don’t know whether to stop walking or brace for impact.
So I whisper the only thought that makes it through the chaos in my head.
“Oh, shit.”
But Sweetheart...
Langston
Idon’t remember crossing the room.
One second I’m moving—measured, controlled, every step calculated—and the next, my hand is already at Elliott’s throat.
His back hits the wall with a solid thud, the sound sharp enough to finally draw gasps from the room. I barely register them. Barely register Sabrina’s sharp intake of breath behind me.
All I see is red.
My grip tightens, fingers digging into muscle and tendon, pinning him there like he weighs nothing. He chokes, hands flying up to my wrist, eyes wide—but not scared enough yet.
“I thought,” I say slowly, my voice terrifyingly calm, “I told you not to fucking touch my wife.”
His feet scramble for purchase as he tries to push back, to puff himself up like he has any leverage here.
“You don’t get to—” he coughs, then forces a laugh. “You don’t get to act like you own her.”
That’s when he makes it worse.
“She was mine first,” he spits. “I had dibs on her. She chose me. And if she hadn’t run off like a coward, I’d be standing where you are right now.”
Something cracks in my chest.
“She was supposed to marry me,” he continues, emboldened by the flicker of hesitation he must feel in my grip. “Her father agreed to it. That’s why you got the sister. You were never even an option.”
