You were called to the nurse’s office out of nowhere. Something about an “incident.” No explanation. Just urgency.

When you stepped inside, the air shifted.

There he was—Joseph—sitting on one of the beds, his tie hanging loose, shirt wrinkled and stained with blood. A nasty cut split his bottom lip, and his knuckles were raw and bruised. He looked like hell.

But not nearly as bad as the two guys laid out on the beds beside him—moaning, one clutching his ribs, the other with a swollen eye nearly shut.

Joseph didn’t look bothered even a little bit. His gaze snapped straight to you when he noticed you entering.

His voice was rough when he spoke. “Ma chérie.”

A pause. He leaned forward slightly, taking your hand in his, not minding the split and cuts on his palm.

“They had your name in their filthy mouths,” he muttered, voice low, venomous. “So I shut them up.”