Page 84 of Hunted to the Altar

She stormed across the living room, fury in every step. Samuel didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. As if he knew exactly what he deserved.

He looked like he hadn’t slept. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t healed.

Good.

“You got five seconds,” Mya snapped, heels stomping closer, “to explain to me why the woman you swore—swore to me—you’d protect looks like she’s been surviving you.”

Samuel didn’t speak.

Not even when she shoved him.

Not when she slapped him.

Not when she balled her fist and drove it into his jaw.

He just stood there. Took it. Like he wanted it. Like he needed it.

I watched the red bloom on his cheek, watched his head snap to the side. He didn’t even raise a hand.

Mya leaned in, and though her voice was a whisper, I caught the fury in her words.

“You lay another hand on her, and I swear to every Caputo Saint and Sinner, I will inject you with something so chemically engineered you won’t even remember how to unzip your pants.” She smiled coldly. “I’ve got a little formula in the lab. The Don let me test it on a few of his enemies. I call it velvet rage. Soft on the outside, irreversible on the inside. One prick, and you’re neutered in more ways than one.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch.

That silence? That was the beginning of penance.

“Mya,” I said, wheeling closer. “Stop.”

She turned to me, panting. Her chest heaved. Her knuckles were red.

“I had to,” she said, voice cracking. “Someone had to.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I need something else now.”

Mya stepped back, her eyes still spitting fire, but she nodded. Slowly. Reluctantly.

She retreated to the couch like a lion backing off its prey. Watching. Ready to pounce again if needed.

I turned to Samuel.

“Your turn.”

He looked at me like I was salvation. Like he wanted to drop to his knees and beg.

But I didn’t want him begging.

I wanted him broken.

“I’ve been waiting,” I said. “Now show me.”

He walked to the living room table. Picked up a manila envelope. Brought it to me.

“I signed over everything,” he said hoarsely. “The penthouse. The offshore accounts. The art collection. Even the club. All of it. It’s yours. If you want to burn it to the ground, I’ll light the match.”

I stared at him.

“Why?”