I stood looking out of the window on the moonlit night, I couldn't stop thinking about Layla. The vodka in my glass wasn't cold anymore, just like how my heart felt.

My other hand rested in my pocket, a habit I'd developed over the years to hide my clenched fist.

The memory of Layla's attempted escape simmered in my mind, growing my anger. I could still picture her desperate eyes, but I quickly pushed that image away. Weakness was not an option; not now. The punishment I had imposed was necessary—she needed to grasp the repercussions of defying me.

As I thought about her, the memory of my late mate,...