"I thought so too when we got married," Amelia says, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. She cups my cheek, her touch surprisingly gentle.
"But here we are. Tyr, take care of Vega for me, okay? I failed to protect him in the past, and it weighs heavy in my heart seeing how he has turned out. At least now he doesn't have to be alone."
***
I slouch in the car seat, the silence of the Maybach a stark contrast to the screaming chaos of the club. I stare down at the ring resting in my palm. It's heavy, carved from aged gold, a piece of history and menace.
The centerpiece is a shield bearing a double-headed eagle with outstretched wings and crossed swords in its talons. A regal crown rests above the eagle, symbolizing command. Ornate scrollwork and acanthus leaves frame the sigil and flow down the thick band, evoking old-world authority.
Amelia's words haunt me. I can't help but wonder what she meant by "failed to protect him." I've noticed that Vega is colder than most people, yes, but for the most part, he looks normal for a powerful, wealthy businessman. So what exactly did she mean by "how he has turned out?"
"Miss, we are here," the driver says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I grab the box of packed sweet treats, my spoils from the ruined tea party, and open the car door.
I walk into the house. Catarina appears instantly, surprised. "You are back so soon."
"It was boring," I lie, though the adrenaline is still buzzing in my veins. "Here, some delicious food for all of us. I didn't even get to eat."
Catarina's eyes widen slightly at the offering, but she restrains her surprise quickly. "Thank you, Madam," she says, taking the box.
***
AMELIA POV
I walk out of the elevator, my steps slow and steady, echoing in the quiet of the underground parking level. I turn into a cemented hallway, and the sounds of a man groaning in pain grow louder and louder as I approach.
I push the door open. Inside, I find Vega. He is a terrifying silhouette, clutching a man's collar of his bloodied shirt and punching him in the face repeatedly. His aura is dark and murderous, the air thick with violence.
"Since when do you handle things by your own hands?" I ask, my voice cutting through the heavy sound of impact.
Vega pauses, looking up at me. His eyes are cold, and the bloodied and swollen-faced man in his grasp is barely breathing.
"If I can't do such a small task, how will they trust me to lead?" Vega says, his voice flat. He punches the man one more time, and this time the man falls, his limbs sprawled, looking lifeless.
Vega beckons Seth over, who immediately hands him a clean handkerchief. He calmly wipes the blood from his knuckles. I take a cigarette from my purse. He instantly produces a lighter and lights it for me.
I take a long drag and blow out a cloud of smoke before asking, "What did he do?"
Vega lights his own cigarette. "He blocked my wife."
I glare at the half-dead man on the floor. "Who sent him?"
"He won't talk," Vega replies, puffing out a cloud of smoke.
"It must be that Larsen girl," I state, the conclusion obvious. "She was eager to slander your wife in front of me today."
Vega's hand, pinching the cigarette, lowers slightly. "How to deal with it?" he asks.
"Return to sender," I advise. "Let them learn to restrain their brat next time."
Vega takes another long drag.
"You chose well," I tell him, my eyes fixed on his reaction. "Don't fuck it up."
Vega chokes on the smoke, dissolving his carefully crafted composure.
I turn to leave, an imperceptible smile touching my lips. I am not stupid. I could see that Vega was interested in Tyr from the day they married. It wasn't just the kiss.
There was an expression on his face, an expression that hadn't been there for more than two decades.I can't wait to see how this is going to play out.
***
TYR POV
It's past midnight, and I'm still awake. I'm watching a live match, the commentator's voice filling my ears through my wireless headphones. Suddenly, a primal feeling hits: hunger.
I recall the box of delicious macarons left over from the tea party. I decide to commit the cardinal sin of eating in the middle of the night, figuring I can just run it off tomorrow.
I put on my robe and head downstairs. The mansion is pitch black, with only thin streams of light filtering in from the grounds outside.
I walk into the kitchen, my gaze half-focused on the phone screen as I listen to the commentator's theatrical voice. Santos, the fighter I'm rooting for, is beaten down. "Come on, you bastard, get up!" I whisper fiercely.
I open the fridge and grab a carton of milk, still watching Santos fight for his life with his opponent's ass squarely in his face. I close the fridge door, forgetting where I am.
It slams shut with a hollow thud, echoing through the dim kitchen like a gunshot.
I blink into the dark, my breath sharp, my muscles coiled. The loud clang of the fridge door has shattered the silence, and now there's an immediate, chilling reaction.
A silhouette stands just beyond the counter, unmoving. I don't hesitate. The milk carton flies from my hand in a tight arc, thudding against the wall as the figure sidesteps with infuriating ease.
I'm already moving. Two quick jabs, a low feint, a spinning elbow. But the man is faster. He catches my wrist mid-strike, his grip firm but not cruel. I twist, pivot, swing my other arm—caught again.
My forearms are crossed tight over my chest, pinned like a crucifix against the cold metal of the fridge. The chill seeps through my thin tank top, but it's the sheer pressure of his body that makes my breath hitch.
"Let go," I hiss, my voice low and lethal.
The man leans in, his breath warm against my temple. "You attacked first. In my house."
My jaw clenches. My pulse thunders in my ears. I can feel the heat of him, the infuriating steadiness, the maddening calm. Vega.
I could've said a hundred things. That I didn't expect to see him. That I didn't like being cornered. But all I say is—
"...I thought it was a break in."
Vega's grip loosens, just slightly. "So did I."