Chapter 48

ALEXANDER

"How the hell..." I growled through gritted teeth, my voice low and deadly.

The monster inside me surged to the surface—seething, brutal, and completely unhinged.

My eyes stayed fixed on the bruise marring her cheekbone. A violent stain against pale porcelain, purple and raw, like someone had taken a hammer to something fragile.

"Who hit her?" I asked.

Calm.

Too calm.

The kind of calm that made people flinch.

The room went still.

Not a breath.

Not a sound.

No one answered.

I tilted my head—just slightly, just enough to see them without looking away from her.

"I won’t ask again," I whispered.

Each syllable was dipped in venom.

"Who. Hit. Her."

Dante shifted.

The smug bastard who strutted like he owned air.

That arrogance dimmed the second my gaze sliced through him.

“ She-she was fighting. Even after we caught her, she wouldn’t stop. Kicked one of the guys. Clawed like a damn wildcat. I thought…”

Dante tried to laugh, but his voice cracked, the sound brittle in the air.

“Just wanted to teach her a little respect. I thought you’d—”

“Thought what?”

I straightened slowly, the crack of my knuckles slicing through the silence like gunfire.

Dante flinched, a pathetic, twitchy recoil that made my lip curl.

“I gave you one fucking instruction.”

My voice was low, lethal—each syllable like a blade pressed to his throat.

“Bring her back. That’s it.”

I took a step closer, my shadow swallowing his.

“Did I say touch her?”

Another step.

“Did I say drag her like an animal?”

My hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him close until his breath hitched against mine.

“Did I say hurt her?”

His mouth opened—stammering, stumbling over the silence—but I cut him off before a single word left.

“No. I didn’t. I told you to bring her to me. That’s it. Nothing more.”

I shoved him back hard.

He stumbled, crashing into the concrete wall behind him, and slid down like a discarded puppet.

“You laid your filthy hands on something that doesn’t belong to you,” I said, voice dropping colder than ice.

“You thought I’d be impressed? That I’d fucking thank you for stepping out of line?”

I crouched slightly to his level, eyes like steel boring into him.

“You don’t touch what's mine. Ever. You don’t breathe near her unless I allow it. You don't think about her without my permission. Do you understand me?”

He nodded nervously.

"Men like you confuse fear with respect. But you’re nothing, Dante. A coward playing gangster. If you ever touch her again, I won’t just end you—I'll erase you. No name. No grave. Just a stain on the floor and silence where your memory used to be."

He opened his mouth.

My glare froze him mid-breath.

Everyone in that room knew what was coming.

“But boss…” Dante stammered, his voice thin and trembling, but he still hadn’t learned to shut his mouth.

“She disrespected you. Again. You saw it—mouthy little thing, no fear. She ran off like she owned the place.”

He shook his head, scoffing like he was disgusted on Alexander’s behalf.

“I thought—hell, I thought maybe we’ve been too easy on her. That’s why she keeps pushing..keeps running. I figured you’d want someone to show her what happens when she crosses you.”

Dante tried to smirk, but it came out crooked and wet.

“Look, I didn’t break her. I made sure she could walk. I just roughed her up enough to send a message. For you.”

He stepped forward slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing some secret wisdom.

“You don’t gotta worry, boss. I made sure she knows who owns her now. She won’t forget that again. I did it for you.”

He grinned then—a pathetic, hopeful thing—as if he actually believed Alexander would pat him on the back for it.

My jaw clenched so hard I felt the bones grind, pressure building like a ticking bomb behind my teeth.

Then my eyes dropped to her.

The bruise blooming across her cheek.

The split at the corner of her lip was red and raw.

He hit her.

He laid his fucking hands on what was mine.

And the bastard still stood there, thinking I’d understand.

Thinking I’d applaud his initiative.

Thinking I’d be okay with that.

That was his final mistake.

Because in that moment—something inside me broke.

Snapped clean in half.

The kind of break that didn’t heal.

The kind that bled.

And I welcomed it.

I didn’t know why seeing her hurt made my blood boil.

Why the image of her tied to that chair, cheeks swollen and lips bleeding, filled my head with murder.

But it did.

And that was enough.

“You think disobedience gives you permission to lay hands on her?” I asked, voice cold enough to freeze bone.

Dante paled.

“She was a message,” I seethed.

“Not a punching bag.”

He tried to explain, weak and shaking.

“Boss—we were trying to control her. She bit one of the guys—”

“You don’t control her,” I snapped.

“You don’t touch her. She’s mine to deal with. Mine.”

“But—”

I moved.

One second he was standing, the next he was pinned to the wall by his throat, boots dangling a few inches above the ground.

The crack of his back slamming into concrete echoed like a thunderclap.

“You want to argue now?” I snarled.

“You think I need help handling her?”

His feet kicked at nothing.

Fingers clawed at my wrist.

“She was collateral,” I growled.

“A living reminder of a debt. And you put your hands on her like she was some street girl.”

“She’s got a mouth on her,” he rasped, barely.

I leaned in, voice quiet. Terrifying.

“I like her mouth. Just the way it is. Unbroken. Loud.”

He gurgled, eyes bloodshot.

“She disobeys me. She mouths off to me. And you think you get to punish her?”

He shook his head. No air made it in.

“She’s not yours to punish. Not yours to look at. Not yours to breathe near.”

The others stood frozen.

No one dared move.

“Let this burn into your memory,” I hissed.

“You touch what’s mine without permission... You don’t walk away.”

His voice caught, trembling. “I-I didn’t mean—”

I slammed him against the wall again.

“I don’t give a damn what you meant.”

Before I could stop myself, my hand shot up, fingers curling tight around his windpipe.

The pressure crushed down like iron, squeezing the air from his lungs.

His eyes bulged, panic flooding them.

I couldn’t hold back anymore.

My temper snapped, raw and savage.

His struggles were frantic but useless—he was mine to break.

Then I locked onto his gaze, dark and merciless.

“Touch her again, and I won’t just crush your throat—I’ll rip your tongue out and make you choke on it. While you watch me feed it to the dogs.”

I released him suddenly.

He collapsed to the floor with a choking cough, desperate for air.

I turned sharply, eyes falling on her—still tied, still bruised, still marked by his cowardly hands.

No.

Killing him outright would be mercy.

The others?

Frozen.

Statues carved from fear, hoping I’d forget they existed.

I leaned in close enough for him to taste the rage burning on my breath.

Good.

They should be afraid.

Because I was no longer in control.

Not even close.

My vision tunnelled.

Red bled into the edges of my sight.

My pulse hammered in my skull like a war drum.

All I could see was her face.

Her pain.

That mark—etched into her skin by him.

That image burned on repeat inside my mind.

Again.

Again.

Again.

No. This wasn’t enough.

Blood wasn’t enough.

I wanted his screams to echo through the night for days.

I wanted him to beg. To cry.

To understand—touching her was signing his own death warrant.

I peeled off my gloves slowly—finger by finger—and handed them to Luther.

“Hold these.”

He obeyed without a word.

I walked back to Dante.

He flinched when I crouched.

“Get up.”

He staggered, swaying, clutching his throat like it would protect him.

“I gave one order,” I said. “Do not touch her. That was the law. My law.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” he rasped.

“—I just—I just meant to scare her—”

“You want to scare someone?” I interrupted, tilting my head.

“Learn this.”

I punched him.

Hard.

Ribs cracked.

Then again.

And again.

Each blow landed with the sickening sound of bone caving beneath fury.

He wheezed, coughed blood, tried to scream—but couldn’t.

I didn’t stop.

I didn’t want to stop.

He needed to remember.

I drove my knee into his gut.

He vomited bile and blood, collapsing like a ragdoll.

“Pick. Him. Up,” I barked.

Luther and another man dragged him up, forced him to his knees.

“Hold his head.”

They did.

I grabbed his face and spat on it.

“You thought she was yours to hit?”

Blood and saliva dripped from his mouth.

“You thought this was discipline?” I growled, face inches from his.

“You don’t discipline her. You don’t even look at her unless I say so.”

He whimpered.

“You don’t get to think,” I hissed.

I smashed his face into the floor.

Again.

Again.

Blood sprayed. Teeth scattered. His nose snapped sideways.

Still not enough.

“You obey,” I snarled. “You keep your filthy hands off what belongs to me.”

I stood over his broken body.

“Luther,” I ordered.

“Break his fingers. All of them. Slow.”

The hesitation was brief.

“Now.”

Snap.

Snap.

Dante screamed.

Good.

I turned to the rest of them. My voice is a whisper of ice and hellfire.

“She is mine. Her defiance. Her fear. Her soul. If any of you touch her again—I won’t stop with your fingers.”

Silence.

Thick.

Absolute.

Perfect.

I walked away from Dante without another look.

Let him scream.

Let him bleed.

Let his body remember what happens when you cross me.

Because no one touches what’s mine.

And lives.