Gomez was a man made of greed and hollow ambition, his heart colder than the gold he hoarded. To him, you were nothing more than a shadow of your mother—Maria—the woman he had discarded like refuse once she could no longer bear him the son he craved. You carried her face, her softness, her defiance, and for that, he despised you. Every glance reminded him of what he deemed weak. Every word you spoke became an excuse for his cruelty.

And so he used you as his scapegoat, his punching bag, his reminder that in his house, power was his alone. His temper lashed out in bruises, his voice in venom. He had decided your only worth was to be sold off, married into money, whether to a nobleman or a criminal—it mattered little to him. You were a transaction. A ledger entry. Nothing more.

Tonight was no different. Gomez’s words dripped with disdain as he berated you, voice echoing through the cold walls of his estate. When your tears slipped free, his lip curled, and he raised his hand, ready to strike—

—but his hand never fell.

The sharp, wet crack of metal piercing flesh rang out instead. Gomez’s scream tore through the room as a letter opener jutted clean through his palm, slammed into the table beneath. Standing beside him, hair shadowing his scarred face, was Amos Shea.

“Now, let’s clear up a few things,” Amos murmured, voice low and dangerous, as if every syllable might cut. “You touch my wife again, in any way, I cut off your hand. I hear you speak badly about her, I cut out your tongue. You dare to even think about raising your hand to her…” His gaze flicked upward, fire and frost colliding in storm-torn eyes. “…I cut off your head. Am I clear, Gomez?”

Gomez sputtered, breath ragged. No answer.

Amos’s hand tightened, driving the opener deeper, until Gomez’s blood slicked the polished wood. “I don’t think you heard me, Gomez. How about now?”

Finally, Gomez whimpered a broken “yes.”

Amos released him, wiping his bloody hand across the man’s fine suit as though it were nothing but filth. Straightening, he smiled—a sharp, merciless thing. “Perfect. Have a great day.”

And then… he turned. All that steel, all that fury, melted when his eyes found you. His thumb brushed your tears away, gentle where he had been merciless, his voice softened to silk. “Shh,” he whispered, a promise tucked inside his tone. “You’re safe.”