“What is your name?”
“Lena,” she whispered. “Lena Marlowe.”
“And who am I saving you from, Lena Marlowe?”
Derek answered for her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Victor’s arm remained around her as he turned. The movement was calm, unhurried. Derek stopped several feet away, anger leading him forward and survival yanking him short the moment recognition hit.
“Mr. Salvatore,” Derek said, color draining from his face. “I’m sorry. My girlfriend’s upset. She’s had too much to drink.”
“Your girlfriend?” Victor asked mildly.
“Yes. I’ll take her home.”
Victor looked down at Lena. He did not speak, but the question in his eyes was clear enough. This was the hinge of her life. Step backward or forward. Lie or tell the truth. Return to the familiar cage or trust the unknown monster in the room.
Lena lifted her chin.
“He hits me.”
The words dropped into the ballroom like a glass shattering. Conversations snagged and stuttered nearby. Derek’s charm returned so fast it was almost impressive.
“That’s not true,” he said. “She’s emotional. She gets confused.”
“Show me,” Victor said to Lena.
Her sleeve covered the bruise badly. She pulled it back. Finger-shaped marks bloomed darkly across her upper arm.
Victor studied them. Then he gave Lena to the care of one silent guard and crossed the space between himself and Derek.
He did not raise his voice. He did not posture. He simply took Derek by the throat and held him there, not choking him, just teaching his body a truth his mind had been avoiding.
“You will leave this building,” Victor said conversationally. “You will not call her, follow her, text her, visit her home, workplace, or any place she might reasonably exist. If I hear your name in the same sentence as hers again, I will remove every comfort from your life one piece at a time. Do you understand me?”
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