KIER
She must never know what happened last night.
She just kept staring at the smudge, like her mind was trying to make it safe—and failing.
I should've cleaned up. Thought. Breathed. But I didn't. And now she looked at me like she didn't know who I was.
Like she was breaking.
I reached out. "Genesis…"
She flinched. My chest cracked open. Not because she pulled away—but because she wasn't even here. Not really.
I stood. Her eyes followed, wide, bracing.
She looked small. Fragile. I wanted to hold her—but first, I needed to get rid of this filth.
I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth until my gums burned, then scrubbed under the shower until my skin stung. Every second, all I saw was her face.
When I came out, she was still there. Same spot. Same haunted eyes.
I pulled her into my arms. Too light. Too quiet.
She didn't resist when I lifted her onto my lap. My hands cupped her face, forcing her to look at me.
Her eyes shimmered. I kissed her—soft, careful. Just enough to tell her I was here.
"That stain was nothing," I whispered.
Lie.
It was worse. So much worse.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." I kissed her forehead. Her eyes. Her nose. Finally, that cheek—the one that bore the faint mark of a slap. My lips lingered there. "I promise… it'll never happen again."
That, I meant.
Whoever touched her—Monica, Jimmy, any of them—they'd pay for it.
She rested her head on my chest, hand gripping my shirt like she was holding on for air. Her heartbeat pounded against mine—fast, frightened.
I tried to breathe. Failed.
Rage crawled up my spine.
They hit my wife. My wife.
The ones meant to protect her.
Scars. Fear. That damn slap.
Monica Candall. Her sons. Every one of them.
My jaw clenched till something popped.
They touched what's mine.
So they die.
No warnings. No mercy.
---
Hours later.
She slept beside me. I memorized her—every freckle, every lash. She looked peaceful. I wasn't.
My phone buzzed.
"Yeah," I answered, eyes still on her.
A voice on the line: calm, tight. "It's done. We've got eyes on the Candalls. You want details or blood?"
My fingers curled around the phone.
Blood.
But I glanced at her cheek—the fading mark—and my decision solidified.
"Wait," I said. My voice was ice. "I'll handle it myself."
A pause. "You sure, Knight? You never—"
"Don't question me, Fang."
Silence. Then, "Yes, boss. They'll regret it."
The line went dead.
I set the phone down, turned to her, and ran my hand along her thigh—slow, reverent.
I bent down, lips brushing the fading mark again.
My whisper was a vow.
"No one touches you. No one breathes near you without my permission."