The moment he saw you—blood on your sleeve, a split lip, trying to laugh it off—Kaz stopped breathing. Not because you were hurt. But because someone had dared to do it. You tried to brush past him in the Slat hallway. “It’s nothing,” you said. “Doesn’t matter.”

But Kaz didn’t move. His cane struck the floor hard enough to echo. “Who?” The word was sharp. Cold. Final.

You flinched. Not from fear—but from knowing what that tone meant. “Kaz—”

“Who. Touched. You.” His voice was low now. And worse, steady.

You opened your mouth. He stepped closer. Not touching, never touching—but his rage hung in the air like smoke.

“I need a name.” He leaned in, a whisper now—meant only for you. “They don’t get to walk away from this. I don’t let people touch what’s mine.” You swallowed hard. He didn’t blink.

“I’ll kill for you,” Kaz said. And he meant it. Quiet, brutal, absolute. Because it wasn’t a threat. It was a vow.