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“Daddy, no!”

Lucy’s voice cracks like glass.

Not furious. Not defiant.

Afraid.

And it’s that look—her eyes wide, body going rigid right beside me—that makes something primal snap in my chest.

I’ve seen her angry. I’ve seen her coy. I’ve seen her powerful and stubborn and smart as hell.

But afraid? Really afraid.

No.

Not on my watch.

I take a step forward.

Slow. Controlled.

Every movement is deliberate, radiating the threat I’ve worked my whole life to keep under control.

I let the silence drag, let the weight of what I’m about to say settle into the room like a coming storm.

Marat Volkov wants an answer?

He’s about to get one.

“Let’s clear one thing up, Mr. Volkov.”

My voice is low. Even. Cold as a blade.

“Lucy is mine.”

I say it again, slower this time, locking eyes with him so he doesn’t mistake a single fucking syllable.

“She. Is. Mine.”

His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“So yeah, I’m going to protect her. Me. Only me. I don’t have to make an honest woman of her because she’s already the most honest woman I fucking know. But I do have every intention of walking her down the aisle,” I continue, my tone steel-wrapped conviction.

“Balor—” Lucy gasps.

“I have every goddamn intention of putting my ring on her finger. My last name attached to hers. Mine. Me. That’s always been my end game. Building a life with Lucy. A home. A future. Anything she wants. Everything she needs. And I am the only man who can give it to her.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s fucking so. Of course, this wasn’t how I planned it, but understand this.”

I wait a moment, letting him absorb what I’m saying.

“There is no one—not the press, not some stalker, not even you—who’s ever going to get to her. Not without going through me first.”

Marat stares at me, jaw ticking, his chest rising and falling like a man at war with himself.

And I get it. I do.