The bass rattled through the bar, but nothing drowned out the sight in front of me. That dress. My dress. On her. The silk I chose, the one meant for my eyes only, now clinging to her curves while Marcus’s filthy hands roamed like she was free for the taking.

Father’s voice slithered back, the warning I could never shake: a weakness gets cut out, eliminated.

She wasn’t allowed to be mine because wanting her meant putting a target on her back. I pushed her away, insulted her, and shoved her into the cold because keeping her close would’ve signed her death warrant. And now she was here, wearing my possession like it meant nothing, while Marcus fed off what I denied myself.

My blood boiled. Every step forward was fire in my veins, every breath jagged with restraint I didn’t have left. Marcus’s smirk was gasoline on the blaze. In an instant, I had him—ripped from her side, slammed into Preston’s grip as my best friend pinned him like the piece of trash he was.

I stood there, chest heaving, eyes locked on her, the venom of fury and hunger eating me alive. My voice came out low, sharp, like a knife dragged across glass.

“You let another man touch you," I growled and stepped forward until she was pressed against me. Until her scent wrapped around my throat like a noose, a fucking poison.

I meant my next words with every fibre of my being. The thorn on my side wasn't escaping my orbit. Not now. Not ever. My hand wrapped around her throat - feeling her thready pulse out of habit.

"You are well and truly fucked, wildflower."