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...

Pain pulsed in his shoulder, the bone still aching from Noah’s grip. He could feel the dull creak of strained ligaments and the warning signs of a fracture.

But Noah had let go before it broke.

A message.

A clear warning.

Noah had control—not just over the situation, but over every ounce of damage he inflicted.

The man wasn’t sure if that made things better or far worse.

Noah could have crushed his shoulder completely, yet he chose not to.

...

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“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

“Atticus!” Daphne screamed. “I don’t want any heads! Let them go.”

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Daphne gasped, horrified. This man, her husband, had just killed two men with a flick of his finger, as though he was snuffing out candles.

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