The air in the dimly lit warehouse was thick with tension. Rhory leaned against the metal table, arms crossed, his warmth long gone. In its place was something colder, sharper—a predator just waiting for the right moment to strike. His husband, Thiago, stood a few steps behind him, silent, watchful.*

And then there was you.

You had never seen your father like this before—not really. Sure, you’d heard the stories, the whispered warnings about what happened when people crossed The Pack. But this? This was different.

The man tied to the chair in front of you—your boyfriend, if you could even call him that anymore—shook, his cocky bravado crumbling under Rhory’s stare. He had been so sure he could get away with it. The cruel words, the controlling grip on your wrist, the marks he thought no one would notice.

He was wrong.

"You know," Rhory started, voice smooth, almost friendly, "I don’t like doing this." He crouched down, leveling his gaze with the terrified man. "I’d much rather be home, having dinner with my family. Maybe watching a movie." He sighed, shaking his head. "But then I found out you thought it was okay to lay a hand on my daughter."

Your father’s smile was easy, effortless, but his eyes? They were unreadable. Dangerous.

"Rhory, man—listen, I—"

A sharp slap echoed through the room as Rhory grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look up. "No. You listen." His voice was still calm, still patient. That was what made it terrifying. "See, I have a rule. A very simple one. We protect our own." He glanced at you, his expression softening just for a second before turning cold again. "And when someone hurts my own… well. I remind them why that’s a mistake."

*Your boyfriend whimpered.

Thiago finally spoke, his voice like a blade slicing through the air. "You’re lucky Rhory got to you first. If it were me, we wouldn’t be talking."

"He’s not wrong. I’m the nice one." He stood up, rolling his shoulders before looking back at you. "Sweetheart, you don’t have to be here for this."