HE WAS SCARED. FOR ME

CHAPTER TEN

My eyes flood with relief and anticipation I don't want to feel.

He came. He actually came.

Dante walks into the auction hall like he owns it. His hand is casually in his pocket, but there's nothing casual about the fury radiating off him in waves.

Behind him, five men in identical black suits move in perfect formation, their faces blank, their hands suspiciously close to concealed weapons.

The silence in the room is deafening.

"Did he just call that lady his woman?" someone whispers loud enough for me to hear. The shock in their voice is palpable.

Dante doesn't acknowledge the whisper. Doesn't acknowledge anyone except me.

He walks toward the front stage, his expression absolutely cold. Empty. The kind of cold that comes before violence.

His eyes lock onto mine, and for a split second, I see something flicker in those dark depths. Then it's gone, replaced by ice.

"What are you doing there?" His voice carries across the silent hall. "Come here."

He says it like I'm not chained. Like there aren't armed guards surrounding me. Like I can just walk off this stage into his arms.

More tears stream down my face. Relief. Fear. Confusion. All of it tangled together.

I want to run to him. Want to throw myself at him and beg him to get me out of here.

But I can't move. The chains hold me in place.

"With all due respect, Mr. De León..." The fat man who's been making disgusting comments about me stands up, his voice dripping with false courage. "She is a product we are bidding for. We have never had to contend with your products during a bid before, but this one is ours."

He licks his lips as he looks at me, and my stomach turns.

Dante goes very, very still.

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

He looks at the man for a long moment. Just looks at him. Silent. Assessing.

Then his hand moves to his pocket.

When it emerges, he's holding something metal. Small. It fits over his fingers like rings, but with vicious hooks extending from each knuckle.

Brass knuckles. But worse.

He slips them onto his right hand slowly, deliberately, letting everyone see. The metal gleams under the chandelier lights.

Then he clenches his fist.

The hooks catch the light. Sharp. Deadly.

He walks toward Mr. Salvador with measured steps. Unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world.

"What did you say, Mr. Salvador?" His voice is quiet. Conversational.

That makes it more terrifying.

Salvador's face goes pale. He shifts back in his seat, suddenly realizing the mistake he's made.

"I... I mean... She is just a product for sale... s-surely you wouldn't want someone like her." His words tumble out, stammering, desperate.

No one in the crowd speaks. No one moves.

The auction hall, moments ago filled with casual chatter and clinking champagne glasses, is now silent as a tomb.

Even the guards holding us have gone rigid with tension.

"So she is a product?" Dante asks again.

This time, I hear it. The slight growl underneath his words. His wolf voice bleeding through.

Salvador knows he's in danger now. Real danger. He doesn't answer, just shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to make himself smaller.

It doesn't help.

Dante's hand moves so fast it's almost a blur.

The slap connects with a sound like a gunshot.

Blood erupts from his face. The hooks tear through skin and flesh, and the spray is horrific. It splashes across the woman sitting next to him, covering her expensive dress in crimson.

She doesn't make a sound. Doesn't even flinch. Just sits there, frozen, as blood drips down her face.

No one makes a sound.

His head snaps to the side from the force. He gasps, choking on blood.

Dante hits him again.

This time, I see teeth. Actual teeth flying from Salvador's mouth, trailing blood through the air before clattering across the floor.

Fear grips me so hard I can't breathe.

Is he this heartless? This ruthless?

I've only been with Dante for a day but I've seen his cold side, at least the little part he shows me, I've seen him cruel. But this is different.

This is violence. Pure, unflinching violence.

Why is he doing this?

Is it because of me? Or is he just making a statement? Reminding everyone in this room who has the real power here?

I'm nothing to him, I remind myself desperately. He said so himself. It's definitely not because of me.

Salvador coughs, blood pouring from his ruined mouth. He tries to speak, to apologize, to beg.

Dante doesn't give him the chance.

His hand shoots forward. Not to hit this time.

He plunges it directly into Salvador's chest.

I hear the ribs crack. The wet, horrible sound of flesh tearing.

Several people gasp. Someone behind me whimpers.

I can't look away.

Dante's hand disappears into his chest cavity up to his wrist. When he pulls back, he's holding something.

Salvador's heart.

Still beating.

Blood pumps from it in rhythmic spurts, running down Dante's forearm, dripping onto the expensive carpet.

Dante looks at it with complete disinterest. Like he's holding a piece of trash instead of a human organ.

Then he clenches his fist.

The heart bursts. Blood and tissue explode between his fingers, spraying across the floor, the seats, the people nearby.

He drops the remains carelessly. They land on Salvador's body with a wet thump.

His corpse slumps in the seat, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth still open in his last attempt to beg for mercy.

Everyone gasps. The sound ripples through the crowd like a wave.

But no one speaks. No one screams. No one runs.

They all just sit there. Frozen. Terrified to move.

The girls chained behind me are crying. Sobbing quietly, trying not to draw attention to themselves.

I should be crying too. Should be horrified.

But I'm frozen. Numb.

So this is the man they call the King.

I've heard whispers. Heard his title. Heard the fear in people's voices when they speak his name.

But I didn't understand. Not really.

Now I do.

This is how ruthless he is. This is what it means to be Dante de León.

He just murdered someone in cold blood. In front of a room full of witnesses. Powerful, wealthy witnesses.

And he doesn't look bothered. Doesn't look guilty or afraid or anything.

He looks... bored.

Like killing a man is nothing more interesting than swatting a fly.

He pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his hand clean. Methodically. Carefully. Making sure every trace of blood is removed from his skin.

When he's satisfied, he drops the soiled handkerchief onto Salvador's corpse.

Then he turns to face the crowd.

"Does anyone else have anything to say?" His voice is calm. Pleasant, even.

Silence.

No one so much as breathes too loudly.

"No?" He looks around the room, making eye contact with several people. They all look away immediately. "Good."

Then he turns his back on them.

Turns to look at me.

And something flickers in his expression. Something I can't quite name.

Is that... concern? Anger? Possessiveness?

It's gone before I can identify it, replaced by that cold mask he always wears.

He walks toward the stage. His steps are measured. Purposeful.

When he reaches the edge, he doesn't climb up. Just reaches for the chains attached to my wrists.

The metal is thick. Heavy. Designed to hold even supernatural beings.

He grips it with one hand.

And pulls.

The chain snaps like it's made of paper.

I gasp. The sudden freedom makes me stumble.

He's an alpha, I realize. A real alpha. Not just strong. Supernaturally strong.

He does the same with the chain on my ankle. One-handed. Effortless.

The metal clatters to the floor.

Red marks circle my wrists and ankle where the cuffs bit into my skin. The evidence of my captivity.

Dante looks at the marks. His jaw clenches.

Then he steps onto the stage. Closes the distance between us until he's right in front of me.

This close, I can see the gold completely overtaking the brown in his eyes. His wolf is right at the surface. Barely contained.

He leans down, his mouth next to my ear.

"You fucking deserve to be punished," he whispers.

His voice is rough. Angry. But underneath it, I hear something else.

Fear.

He was scared. For me.