Adrian’s POV

And I was fluent.

Every inch of my body throbbed from Dante’s handiwork—knuckles bruised, ribs aching, blood sticky against my lips. He was precise, almost surgical, in the way he delivered it. No wasted blows. No wild rage. Just enough to break, never enough to kill.

A professional.

But pain was temporary. And words… words carved deeper.

They couldn’t chain that.

I shifted against the steel chair, the cuffs biting my wrists, and let a low laugh rattle out of my throat. The sound scraped raw, but it carried. I knew she could hear it out there. Sweet little Alina, curled on some couch, trying not to listen....