“Not yet. But she will be.”
And that’s when I hear it—under his breath, just a muttered phrase between gritted teeth:“She won’t survive the week.”
Everything inside me freezes. Then burns.
I smile.
Slow.
Deadly.
And then I move.
Brannik doesn’t even see it coming.
One punch crushes his jaw sideways. The second rips his shoulder from its socket. The third throws him across the room like meat.
Lys tries to run. I slam him to the ground, boot on his spine, blade at his ear.
“Try again.”
The whole camp hears the ruckus. That’s the point.
I drag Brannik out by his collar, blood trailing behind us like a leash. My crew gathers. Eyes wide. No one speaks.
“This man,” I say, “just suggested killing someone under my protection.”
Gasps. A few murmurs.
“Not an outsider. Not a stranger.My woman.”
Brannik coughs blood. Tries to speak.
I slam him against the engine rig so hard his ribs crack. “You forgot the rule.”
The crowd chants, low and growing: “Red Eye’s rule. Red Eye’s rule.”
I drop Brannik at their feet.
“Anyone touches her,” I say, voice like stone cracking, “dies screaming.”
I leave him there. Alive. Barely.
Let ‘em allwatchhim try to breathe through a shattered rib cage and know what the fuck I meant.
That night, I return to quarters and close the door behind me like the wind’s a beast trying to follow.
She’s asleep already.
Curled up, jaw tight, arms wound around her like a shield. I see the fresh bandage on her thigh. I didn’t even notice she got hit.
What else am I missing?
I sit in the chair across from her, hands steepled, heart pounding slower now. Just enough to think.
She mumbles something. Flinches. Her brow furrows.
Then I hear it.
