One knee on the man’s chest. He catches the guard’s arm and twists. Thecrackof breaking bone rings through the garden. The scream that follows is inhuman. Raw. The guard’s arm bends at an angle arms don’t bend, as he writhes, sobbing, while Elio’s expression remains completely blank.
No rage. No satisfaction.
Correction. Not punishment. A lesson.
“She ismine.” Elio’s voice carries clearly in the sudden silence. “Her face. Her body. The air she breathes. Not for you to look at. Not for you to consider. Erase her from your mind.Capisce?”
The guard can only sob.
The other two guards who were watching drag him away, muttering “idiota” under their breath. Blood smears the stone where he fell.
All that’s left is silence.
Elio stands slowly. His chest rises and falls too fast, the only sign that anything out of the ordinary just happened. There’s blood on his knuckles, on the cuffs of his pristine shirt. He straightens his collar, runs a bloody hand through his hair in a small, unconscious attempt at composure.
Then he turns.
Looking for me.
I’m still on the path. Haven’t moved. There are tiny droplets of blood on my silk dress, on my bare skin where the spray caught me.
Our eyes meet across the short distance.
I should be terrified.
A man’s arm was just broken for aninsult. For a look. The violence was disproportionate, brutal, a clear glimpse of the monster I always thought him to be.
But what I feel isn’t fear.
It’s the sharp, almost physical realization that for the length of that encounter, I was absolutely safe. The guard looked at me like I was nothing, called me a whore, and Elio made sure he would never do it again.
My mind splits down the middle.
No one has ever responded to someone disrespecting me with that level of ferocity. Not my brothers, who taught me to fight my own battles. Not anyone.
And yet. Sean and Danny would behorrifiedto see this moment. Would lose their minds if they knew I’m standing here with blood on my dress, watching my kidnapper flex his broken knuckles, and the first thing I felt wasn’t revulsion.
I’m a Murphy. Raised in a loving Catholic family with clear lines of right and wrong. My father, if he were still alive, would have a lot to say about what just happened. About my response to it.
But at the same time… some primal part of me responds to the raw, absolute nature of the protection. I’ve been protected before. Loved before. But never like this. Never with bones broken and blood spilled to send a message.
Warmth spreading low in my belly. An unwelcome pulse of arousal layered over shock.
You’re sick. You know that, right? You’re fucking sick.
But knowing it doesn’t change what my body is doing. Doesn’t change my nipples hardening or the heat building between my thighs while I stare at his split knuckles and think about what those hands did to me last night.
Elio steps toward me. Stops just short as his eyes search my face. Braced for fear. Disgust. Rejection.
He doesn’t get any of those. Not in the clean ways he expected.
“That wasn’t about respect.” My voice comes out quieter than I intend. But steady. “Or discipline.”
“No.”
“It was about me.”
“Yes.”
