{ Enzo }
The man squirmed in the chair, leather straps digging into his wrists, but there was nowhere for him to go. His breaths came sharp and shallow, echoing in the dim room. I stood in front of him, calm, steady, every move deliberate.
I picked up the first blade from the table—a long, narrow dagger with a polished edge that caught the light. The silence between us thickened.
"You touched what's mine," I said softly, almost a whisper. "And that… is unforgivable."
Before he could stammer out another excuse, I pressed the blade against his forearm, slow, deliberate, watching his muscles twitch under the pressure. The first slice was shallow, almost merciful, a warning. He gasped, choked back a cry.
I tilted my head. "Not enough?" My voice carried no emotion, though inside, rage still coiled hot in my chest.
The next cut was deeper, dragging a crimson line down his skin. His scream tore through the air, harsh and raw. I didn't flinch. Instead, I leaned closer, my lips near his ear. "Do you hear her breathing?" I gestured toward the couch where the girl lay, fragile but alive. "Every sound she makes reminds me of what you stole from her. What you tried to take."
I moved to the table, set the dagger down, and picked up a hammer. Its weight felt solid, final. I rested it against his knee. His eyes widened, frantic.
"Please—Boss, I swear, I didn't mean—"
The crunch of bone cut him off. His scream ripped through the room, sharp enough to rattle the walls. I pressed harder, grinding the damage in, until tears streamed down his mask.
I let him writhe, let the pain sink deep. Then I crouched, meeting his wide, terrified eyes. "Every break, every cut, every scream—you've earned it. And I'll keep going until I'm certain you'll never forget why."
My grip tightened on the hammer. My smile, cold and sharp, didn't reach my eyes. "And trust me—you will never forget her."
The man screamed as steel bit into his skin, each sound bouncing off the stone walls like music to my ears. My grip was steady, my movements precise. Torture was an art, and I never rushed it. Every second of his suffering was a reminder to the others of what happened when you disobeyed me.
But then—out of the corner of my eye—I caught a flicker of movement on the couch.
Her.
Her head lolled weakly against the armrest, her lips pale, the color draining from her face as though the life itself was slipping out of her. My chest tightened, sharp and sudden. For the first time in years, the scream of a man in pain didn't satisfy me. It grated.
The knife slipped from my hand, clattering against the table of blades. Rage boiled in my veins, not at the traitor in front of me—but at myself, for letting her see this, for letting her get this far gone under my watch.
"Boss—please!" the masked man begged, bloodied and shaking.
I didn't even look at him. My boots pounded against the floor as I strode to her side, scooping her limp body into my arms. She was too light. Too broken. My throat tightened with a fury I didn't know how to name.
Behind me, the traitor whimpered again. My jaw clenched. I didn't have time for him.
Without turning, my voice came out sharp as a blade:
"Finish him."
Silence. Then a nervous, "Boss?"
My eyes snapped up, burning. "Make it slow."
One of the others rushed forward instantly. Good. They knew better than to question me twice.
I adjusted her carefully against me, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. Her skin burned with fever, and something ugly twisted inside my chest. I turned on my heel and carried her out, every step heavy with a strange, unshakable urgency.
The screams from the execution room faded behind me, replaced only by the rapid pounding of my heart. I didn't care about the man anymore. All that mattered was her.
I pushed the door open with my shoulder, cradling her against me as if she might shatter. My room felt colder than usual, its shadows deeper, the silence too heavy. The moment I laid her down on the broad bed, her body looked even smaller, more fragile. Blood smeared across the white sheets, stark against her pale skin.
For a moment, I couldn't move. My fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into flesh as I fought the instinct to tear through the walls and slaughter every last man who had dared to lay a hand on her. But then my gaze snapped back to her—her lashes fluttering weakly, her breath shallow—and all I could do was stand there, caught between rage and helplessness.
Do I call a doctor? The thought burned through me. No. Too risky. No one can see her. No one can know she's here.
Then what? Tend her wounds myself? My hands hovered over her, trembling. They were hands that broke bones, that carved pain into enemies, that had never once been gentle. Could I even touch her without making things worse?
Her lips parted, the faintest sound escaping—half a whimper, half defiance even now. My heart twisted, a sharp ache. Damn it. She shouldn't be alive after what she's endured. And yet she fights, even unconscious, as though daring death to take her.
I sank into the chair beside the bed, elbows on my knees, running a hand through my hair. Every instinct screamed at me to do something—clean her wounds, press the cloth to stop the bleeding, whisper reassurances I didn't believe in myself. But another voice, darker, colder, hissed: Just watch her. Make sure she's still breathing. That's enough.
Her chest rose and fell, uneven but steady. Each breath eased something inside me. Still alive. Still here.
I reached out without thinking, brushing a strand of blood-matted hair from her face. And that's when I saw it again—those eyes. No longer brown. The contact must have slipped, revealing the startling blue beneath. They were nothing short of disarming, even clouded by pain. Blue like ice, like oceans, like storms waiting to break.
My chest tightened, an ache I didn't want to name. She wasn't supposed to matter. She wasn't supposed to look at me like that—even in weakness—as if she could see through the armor I wore.
I leaned back, forcing air through my lungs. Doctor. Bandages. Anything. But my body wouldn't move. Not yet. Not until I was certain—absolutely certain—that her next breath wouldn't be her last.
So I sat there, the king of wolves reduced to a man watching a girl breathe.