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No.

No fucking way.

My stomach twists.

Did my own father put those bruises on her?

Did he put his hands on her?

“Fuck!” I roar.

He’s not violent.

At least not to my knowledge.

But then again, how much do I really know?

I haven’t lived at home in years. I’ve been shipped off to boarding school since I was about five, only returning for the holidays. Then, at eighteen, I had a house built for myself.

Fuck, I refuse to believe it.

I refuse.

But the possibility is there all the same.

A whisper at the back of my mind that refuses to shut up.

Perhaps it’s instinct.

Whatever it is, I can’t ignore it.

Because if he’s a monster hiding behind designer suits and impeccable manners, then I just left her alone with him.

I shove away from the body, turn on my heel and head for the stairs at a run.

A few seconds later, I’m behind the wheel when someone knocks on the driver’s window.

I look up and find Harry waiting outside.

I bring the window down.

Harry is officially my chief of staff, though in reality he handles just about everything I throw at him and never so much as raises an eyebrow.

“Make sure he’s burned. I don’t want a single trace left behind,” I say.

I don’t usually make a habit of killing people.

I leave that sort of thing to Isaak and Milo.

But I’m not exactly innocent myself.

I’ve killed before.

As I’ve said, I was born wrong in the head.

The difference is that I prefer a boxing ring. That’s where I beat every ounce of pent up rage from my system and silence the noise in my head.

After that, I can return to the carefully crafted illusion of control and perfection I present to the world.