Chapter 45
Mack didn't expect to see him again.
But fate had a way of testing his patience.
He was coming out of the gym, sweat still clinging to his shirt, when a too-familiar voice sliced through the air.
"Well, if it isn't the rebound."
Mack's head snapped around, and there he was—Vi's ex. The same smug smirk plastered across his face, as if he hadn't destroyed her once already. As if he wasn't the reason Mack sometimes held her tighter at night, whispering promises to heal what had been broken.
Mack's jaw clenched. "You've got five seconds to walk away."
The man laughed. "Five seconds? Please. You think this little thing between you and Vi will last? She'll come back to me. She always does. She was mine long before she was your charity project."
Mack's vision went red. He stepped closer, towering over him. "You're not saying her name again."
But the ex leaned in, smirking, testing him. "I'll get her back. She belongs with me."
That was it.
Mack's fist flew before he even thought about it, cracking against the man's jaw with a sickening thud. The ex staggered back, clutching his face, but Mack didn't let up. Rage—hot, protective, absolute—poured through him.
"You think you can walk around like she's yours? After everything you put her through?" Mack's voice was a growl as he slammed him against the wall. His fist connected again, a brutal punch to the ribs that made the man wheeze.
"She cried because of you. She doubted herself because of you. And now you think you can waltz back and take her away from me?" Mack's grip tightened on the man's collar, his knuckles white. "Over my dead body."
The ex spat blood, glaring. "She'll never—"
Another punch cut him off. Harder this time. Mack didn't stop until the man's arrogance drained into fear, until his smirk was gone, replaced with the wide-eyed realization that Mack wasn't bluffing.
Breathing hard, Mack shoved him down to the pavement. "Listen to me carefully. You don't call her. You don't text her. You don't breathe in her direction. Because if you ever—ever—come near Vi again, I will finish what I started right now."
He leaned down, his voice low, lethal. "She's mine. And I protect what's mine."
The ex didn't reply—he just scrambled to his feet and staggered away, beaten, humiliated, and finally silent.
Mack stood there, chest heaving, fists still trembling with the urge to keep going. But underneath the fury, one thing rang loud and clear: he would kill before he let anyone hurt her again.
By the time Mack reached the house, his pulse had slowed, but his hands still carried the evidence. His knuckles were raw, split, and swelling.
He scrubbed them under cold water at the sink, gritting his teeth as the sting burned through. He didn't want her to see. Didn't want to bring that bastard into their home, their peace.
But Vi always noticed.
She padded into the kitchen in her soft lounge pants, hair tied up messily, looking every bit like the safe place Mack had never thought he'd find. She stopped when she saw him hunched over the sink.
"Mack?" Her voice softened, suspicious. "What did you do?"
"Nothing." He dried his hands too quickly, trying to hide them in a towel. "Just a scrape."
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "A scrape doesn't split skin across every knuckle." She grabbed his hand before he could pull away, turning it over, studying the angry red marks. Her chest rose and fell as she pieced it together. "You fought someone."
"Vi…" His jaw tightened.
"Who?" Her eyes lifted to his, demanding.
He hesitated, but lying wasn't in him—not with her. "Your ex."
Her breath hitched. She let go of his hand like it burned her. "You saw him?"
"He saw me." Mack's voice was dark, hard. "And he ran his mouth about you. Said he'd get you back. That you'd always belong to him." His fists curled again, and pain shot through his hand, but he didn't care. "So I shut him up."
"Mack—"
He closed the space between them, his hands framing her face gently, a sharp contrast to the violence still humming under his skin. "Listen to me. He's not getting near you. Not ever. I don't care what I have to do, who I have to break—I'll burn the world down before I let him touch you again."
Vi's eyes shone, torn between fear for him and something else—something raw that twisted inside her chest. She pressed her palms against his chest, grounding him. "You can't just—"
"I can." His voice cracked, rough with truth. "I love you, Vi. You're not just my everything—you're the only thing. I can't lose you. I won't."
Her throat worked as she tried to find words, but none came. Instead, she leaned in, resting her forehead against his, her voice a whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
For a long moment, they stood in silence, his uneven breath mixing with hers. The storm in him slowly gave way to something steadier, softer—because she was right there, choosing him.
When she finally pulled back, she looked at his swollen knuckles again and sighed. "Sit down. I'm cleaning those before they get infected. Big, tough man can fight, but can't bandage himself properly."
Despite the ache in his hands, he smirked faintly. "Guess I need you for that."
Her lips twitched. "Guess you do."
Mack sat at the kitchen table like a sulking kid, towering shoulders hunched forward as Vi set down the first aid kit with a dramatic thud.
"Take off your shirt," she ordered.
He arched a brow, smirk tugging at his mouth. "If you wanted me naked, sweetheart, you could've just asked."
Her eyes narrowed as she snapped on the latex gloves with a pop. "Oh, trust me, I'm about to ruin all the sexy thoughts in your head."
The smirk faltered.
She took his hand and dabbed at the first cut with antiseptic.
"Jesus, Vi!" Mack hissed, jerking back like she'd poured acid on him. "Are you trying to kill me?"
"It's disinfectant," she said sweetly, holding on tighter. "You know… the thing that stops you from turning into some infection-ridden caveman."
"Feels like fire."
"Good. Means it's working."
She pressed a fresh swab down on the next knuckle with exaggerated force.
"F—!" He bit off the curse, teeth clenched so hard a vein popped in his neck.
Vi's lips twitched. "Oh, don't be such a baby. I've seen toddlers take their shots with more dignity."
"I fight grown men with my bare hands," he ground out. "But this? This is torture."
"Oh, stop whining." She blew gently on the wound, just enough to make his skin prickle. "There. Better?"
Mack glared, caught between pain and the way her mouth hovered over his hand. "You're evil."
"Maybe." She dipped the cotton again and pressed it harder.
"Vi!" He jumped, towering chair legs screeching against the floor.
She burst out laughing, nearly dropping the bottle. "Oh my god—you should've seen your face!"
He narrowed his eyes, but the twitch in his jaw gave him away. "You think this is funny?"
"I think it's hilarious." She leaned back, smug. "Big, bad Mack brought down by a bottle of antiseptic."
He caught her wrist, pulling her into his lap before she could escape. "Keep laughing, sweetheart. We'll see who's laughing later."
Her laughter spilled against his neck as she wriggled. "Careful—if you move too much, I might 'accidentally' pour the whole thing over your hand."
Mack's growl was low, dangerous, but his lips curved against her ear. "Brat."
"And yet," she teased, tapping the bandaged hand, "you'd still fight the world for me."
He looked at her, softened despite himself, and kissed her temple. "Damn right I would."