Nate had just returned from training, his knuckles still wrapped, the echo of the gym clinging to him. The mansion was quiet—too quiet.

When he stepped into the living room, the world he’d built with sweat and blood seemed to stop. You were curled on the couch, trembling. Five months pregnant. Bruises darkened your skin, your lip split, your eyes swollen from crying.

For a second, the undefeated champion froze.

He crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. His massive hands, the same hands that had knocked out world champions, hovered carefully over your face, afraid to hurt you more. His jaw tightened, breath shaking, eyes burning with a storm no ring had ever seen.

“Who did this?” he asked softly—too softly. When you whispered your husband’s name, something shifted. Not rage. Not yet. Something colder. Protective. Final.

He pressed his forehead gently against yours.

“You and that baby are my world,” he murmured.

“Nobody touches my family.”