22
“Lyon…”
Kira’s voice was muffled, coming to him as if very far away. He could hardly hear it around the roar in his ears.
He stalked across the floor and lifted Jean-Luc to his feet. The other man weighed nothing at all, and Lyon landed a vicious punch to his face that sent the man sprawling against the wall.
The other man’s expression turned still and pale, blood leaking from his broken nose, as Lyon walked toward him. The fury that had threatened to rip him apart when he’d arrived to find this man with his hands on Kira, Kira obviously protesting, obviously afraid, had cooled into something still and determined.
The man tried to fight, striking out with a series of ineffectual punches, as Lyon straddled his body. Lyon stilled him with a ferocious hit to his face, felt the bones give way under his fists, heard the crunch of them collapsing.
The ensuing satisfaction was like a familiar balm. This was what he knew, what he’d been all those years when he’d been plotting his takeover the bratva. Then, he’d liked nothing more than hurting people, had felt no greater satisfaction than that of being a deliverer of pain.
It was like returning home, and he punched and punched, each blow more vicious than the last, until the sound of Kira’s voice threaded its way through the vacuum of silence that always surrounded him when he escaped into violence.
“That’s enough.”
He stopped, letting Kira’s voice seep into the quiet place where he’d withdrawn.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched before he realized it was her.
“Look at me, Lyon.” He turned his head to look up at her. She held his gaze, and he searched her eyes for shame or disgust and found none. “That’s enough.”
He climbed off the bloody unconscious man who’d dared touch her and found Alek standing in the doorway to the music room, his expression bland.
Lyon reached down and grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt, then dragged his limp body toward Alek. He dropped the other man at Alek’s feet and bent to slap his face.
The man’s eyes, already swollen, flickered open.
“You’d already be dead if my wife wasn’t here.” The man flinched as Lyon leaned closer to his ruined face. “But if you ever touch her again, if you ever look at her or come within ten feet of her, I’ll cut off your hands and shove them down your throat, then tie a cinderblock to your ankle and drop you in the lake.” He straightened, toeing the man’s prone body toward Alek. “Deal with him.”
Alek reached down, heaved the other man to his feet, and dragged him out into the hall.
Lyon shut the door and turned to Kira.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Panic flared in his chest. Kira knew he was a violent man.
Everyone did.
But she’d never seen it, had never borne witness to his actions during those times when he needed to hurt someone. Would she turn away from him? Be afraid of him?
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” She walked toward him and lay her hand on his cheek. “Thank you.”
He tried to make sense of the words. “Thank you?”
She nodded. “For protecting me. Although I think you may have gone a bit overboard.”
He was shocked by the humor in her voice. “Do you think?”
She smiled and held up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Maybe just a little. Although I did like that bit about cutting off his hands. Very intimidating.”
He laughed and pulled her into his arms. She was made for him. “I’m glad you approve.”
He looked down at her and smoothed the hair away from her forehead. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Strong and wild with the heart of a warrior.
He captured her mouth in a kiss, invading it with his tongue, taking possession of it. She belonged to him, and he would kill any man who dared touch her.
They were both breathing hard when he pulled away.