I immediately curled inward without thinking, knees drawn up, arms wrapping around them as though I could contain the chaos inside my chest by physically holding myself together.
The shame came second.
Hot under my skin.
I shouldn’t have kissed him back the way I did.
I should have slapped him the second his lips landed on mine.
But I hadn’t. Instead, I had melted into the heat of him like a traitor, my mouth opening, my tongue meeting his in a desperate, furious dance I couldn’t take back.
Shame burned hotter than the lingering taste of him on my lips.
Now I couldn’t see his expression. Couldn’t see his face.
All I had was the heavy, unmoving presence of him standing beside the bed, close enough that the heat of his body wrapped around me like a cage.
My fingers twisted into the sheets as I tried to find the words to tell him to leave.
To get out. To stop haunting me.
But then his voice came—low, rough.
“While you were unconscious,” he said, voice low and lethal, “I hunted down every last one of your father’s clients. The men who dared lay their filthy hands on you.”
He trailed off, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make my stomach drop. ““They’re chained in my warehouse like the animals they are. And by morning, they’ll scream for the mercy they never showed you... right before I carve it out of them myself.”
My entire body went ice-cold.
Past memories slammed into me like a fresh blow—rough hands, laughter that still echoed in my nightmares, the metallic stink of that cell.
Fear crashed over me so violently I was back there again, helpless and broken.
My throat tightened so viciously I couldn’t draw a proper breath.
My chest heaved in shallow, useless gasps as my body began to shake uncontrollably.
I clenched my fists so hard I felt the sharp sting of nails cutting into my palms, warm blood slicking my skin.
I hated hearing words about that particular period of my life.
Hated that he knew.
Hated that the monster standing next to my bed had just handed me the one thing I’d never dared to dream of—vengeance—while still feeling like the enemy who had stolen my freedom.
I sensed him shift closer.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed.
One large hand reached out, his fingers brushing my trembling shoulder with a gentleness that didn’t match the violence he’d just promised.
The same hand that had gripped my waist and tilted my head during that devastating kiss.
“Breathe, Loretta,” he murmured, voice dark and intimate, far too close to my ear. “They will never touch you again. No one will. Not while I’m breathing.”
I wanted to scream at him. To shove him away. To tell him I didn’t need his protection or his bloody gifts.
But my body betrayed me again—just like it had when I kissed him back.
