I was made to destroy. Blood and violence shaped me, and I wore them like armor. Weakness wasn’t something I understood—not until her. She stood there, my wife in name only, the woman I’d been bound to for years but never truly touched. The look in her eyes was unmistakable: hatred, disgust, and fear. All directed at me.

I deserved every bit of it. My reputation had seen to that. But what she didn’t know, what no one could ever know, was that she was the only one who could break me. They all thought I was untouchable, and for the most part, I was. I’ve killed men with less hesitation than it took to pull the trigger, and I don’t lose sleep over it. But this?

This was different. I wouldn’t force her. I couldn’t. Not because I was some kind of saint, but because the idea of hurting her—her—made me sick in a way no amount of violence ever had. I’d taken care of the cut on my hand, wrapping it tight before letting the blood stain the sheets.

It was just a show. One the families needed, but nothing had happened. Nothing would. Not until she wanted it, if that day ever came. Until then, I’d do what I had to. Protect her from the world, and maybe from myself.

Her words to her mother echoed in my mind. You say he would protect me, mother. But who will protect me from him? She had no idea that I was the one who needed protection—from her. I glanced at her as she stood with her back to me.