I knew that name. Calloway. Ran half of London's underworld from some gothic mansion in Richmond. The kind of man who built empires on violence and loyalty. Not the kind of man who vouched for people unless they were very good at keeping things alive.
Or very good at killing what threatened them.
“When does he start?”
“Soon.”
Fuck.
“I don't want this,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I don't want some stranger following me around, watching everything I do.”
“I know.” He pulled me into a hug then, sudden and tight, the way he used to when I was small and afraid of thunderstorms. “I know, Sebastian. But I'm asking you anyway. Begging you. Let me do this. Let me keep you safe.”
I stood there in his arms, feeling his heart beat against my chest.
“Fine,” I said finally, because arguing wouldn't change anything. Because loving him meant lying to him. “I'll meet him.”
He pulled back, hands framing my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “Promise me you'll let him do his job. That you won't fight this.”
“I promise.”
Liar.
But he smiled anyway. Relieved. Desperate. Clinging to whatever pieces of me he thought he could still save.
“I know you don't understand,” he said softly. “But I can't. I can't lose you, Sebastian. You're all I have left of her.”
The words hit like a blade between the ribs.
“I'm not going anywhere,” I told him.
And watched him believe it.
3
THE RELUCTANT PROTECTOR
VIKTOR
The sound of my fists against the training mat was the only rhythm I trusted.
Impact. Breath. Reset.
Everything else was noise. Chaos pretending to be order. Lies dressed up as loyalty. Men calling themselves soldiers when they'd never tasted smoke or held a dying comrade while his blood turned the snow red beneath them both.
But this. This I understood.
The training hall at Ravenswood stretched out in all directions, polished floors reflecting fluorescent lights that made everything look sterile. Clinical. Like a morgue where the bodies could still move. High windows lined the far wall, rain streaking down the glass in patterns that reminded me of somewhere else. Some other storm. Some other life I'd left bleeding in the dirt where it belonged.
I didn't think about it.
Thinking was dangerous.
I moved through the combinations Adrian had drilled into me years ago, back when I was still raw from the military, still flinching at loud noises, still waking up with my hands around invisible throats.He'd taught me control. Discipline. How to turn rage into something useful instead of letting it burn me alive from the inside out.
Impact. Breath. Reset.
My knuckles were already split, blood seeping through the tape I'd wrapped too thin this morning. I didn't care. Pain was clarity. Pain was the only honest thing left in the world, and I'd take honesty over comfort any day of the week.
