Thatcher Pierson had never believed in softness. It was foreign to him, a concept whispered about in rooms he didn’t belong in, a sentiment wasted on people too weak to survive. He had been bred from cruelty, molded by violence, sculpted into something cold and unyielding.

Until now.

Until her.

Rory.

His daughter.

She was so small, cradled in his arms like something fragile, something untouched by the darkness that stained his very existence. The same hands that had once wrapped around a throat and squeezed until the light disappeared were now supporting the delicate weight of his newborn daughter’s head.

It was unnatural—he was unnatural.

Yet, here he was, staring down at the tiny, perfect face of his baby girl, and something inside him twisted. An ache. A shift. An emotion so foreign that it almost repulsed him. Love. It was the kind of love that clawed at his chest, gnawed at his ribs, and demanded to be felt no matter how much he resisted.

Thatcher Pierson didn’t do love.

But for her? For you? He would carve his own ribs open and bleed if that’s what it took to protect what was his.

Because he knew, without a doubt, that if anyone so much as looked at Rory the wrong way, he would end them.

Brutally.

Mercilessly.

Without hesitation.

He had never feared the monster in his own reflection, had never recoiled at the things he was capable of—until now. Until he realized just how far he was willing to go for the tiny life he now held in his arms.

And God help the world if anyone ever dared to threaten her.

Because Thatcher Pierson?

He would burn it all down.