She was gone.
They'd taken her. And I hadn't been here.
Something inside me broke. Not the rage—that was still building, coiling tighter with every breath. The part of me that believed I could keep her safe. The part that thought control meant protection. The part that hadn't realized how badly I'd already lost her the moment I let her out of my sight.
I stood in the ruins of her bookstore, blood on the floor and silence ringing in my ears, and understood with perfect, terrible clarity: I would burn the entire world down to get her back.
And it still might not be enough.
The crash came from behind me. Not imagined. Not a trick of adrenaline.
Real.
Then—a scream.
Belle's.
My vision went white.
I didn't run. I charged. Straight through Fiction, past the counter, sending a display crashing to the floor. Books exploded across my path. I didn't slow.
The back room door hung crooked on its hinges.
And there…
Belle.
Pinned against the wall like prey. Her shirt torn at the shoulder, pale skin exposed. Hair wild. Eyes wide with terror I'd never seen before.
Two men. The same ones from the sedan. One had her arms wrenched behind her back, crushing her wrists together. The other leaned in close, thick fingers reaching for her face.
Something inside me shattered.
I launched.
A snarl ripped from my throat—inhuman, primal, unstoppable.
I grabbed the first loan shark by his collar and slammed him into the bookshelf so hard the wood splintered. Books rained down. The entire structure groaned, tilting dangerously.
The second man lunged at me, fist raised.
I caught him mid-swing and drove my fist into his jaw. Bone crunched. He flew backward, hitting the opposite wall with a sickening thud.
The first man scrambled to his feet, gasping.
I dragged him up by his throat and slammed him again.
And again.
And again.
"You touch her?—"
Slam.
"You look at her?—"
Slam.
