Her pulse beats wildly under my thumb. I run a finger along it, slow, tracing that delicate rhythm like it's the only sound I can hear.
Alive. She's alive.
I shouldn't care.
I should let my men answer, finish what I started, and keep my distance.
But the moment I saw the blood on her temple, something inside me fractured.
It means everything to protect her.
I don't know when it happened.
I just know that somewhere between studying her picture and hearing her name come through Lorenzo's phone, something in me shifted—and now she feels like mine to guard.
The men glance at one another, nervous energy thick in the room. Finally, one clears his throat.
"Boss, she—uh—she fought back."
Another jumps in. "Yeah, kicked Giovanni right in the ribs."
"She bit me," someone else mutters.
"She wouldn't stay down. We tried to be careful but—"
They start talking over each other, the noise chaotic, every word grinding against the pulse beating behind my eyes.
I look at her again.
Her head held high.
Eyes like defiance and fire.
Blood drying on her skin.
I raise a brow.
She shrugs. "What did you expect me to do? Say thank you?"
For a second—just one—I almost laugh. The audacity of her, standing here in my world, shaking but still ready to burn.
Then she starts again—voice rising, full of that same fire that got her into this mess.
"I don't care who you are or what kind of throne you think you sit on. You can drag me to your castle, lock me in your fucking tower, but I will still run the story. I will still tell the truth. And none of this—" she gestures around wildly, eyes flashing "—none of you will scare me away."
She steps closer, chin tilted, fury rolling off her like heat. She's so close I can feel her breath against my chest.
I still haven't let go of her wrist.
Every muscle in my body tells me to pull back—to end this before I do something I can't take back—but I can't.
Something about her draws me closer, not farther.
And then she stops.
Freezes.
Her eyes go wide—not at me, but at the sound behind me.
