Page 30 of Lupo

"You didn't bring it. I let it in."

He turns back to me. "Why did you do it?"

"What?"

"Why did you help me? You knew what I probably was. You knew the risk. Why didn't you just leave me in the olive grove?"

I think about that morning. About finding him broken and bleeding. About making the choice that's led to this moment.

"Because I know what it's like to need help and have nowhere to go," I say quietly. "And because..." I stop, not sure I want to say the rest. "Because when I look at you, I don't see someone who deserves to die alone in a field." I meet his eyes. "Whatever you were, whatever you did, I think you deserve a chance to be something different."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying.

"I'm going to keep you safe," he says finally. "You and Elena. Whatever comes, whether it's looking for you or for me, I'm going to keep you safe."

"You don't owe me that."

"Yes, I do." He comes back to the table, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. "You saved my life, Isabella. You gave me shelter when you had every reason to turn me away. You're feeding me when you barely have enough for yourself. You trusted me with your daughter, with your secrets, with everything." He pauses. "I'm going to protect you. It's the only thing I'm certain I know how to do. I will do this."

And looking at him, at the hard set of his jaw, the dangerous promise in his eyes, I believe him.

I also understand, for the first time, exactly how dangerous he really is.

And God help me, right now, that doesn't scare me.

It makes me feel safe.

Chapter 11: Lupo

I can't sleep.

I'm lying on the hay bales in the barn, wrapped in the blankets Isabella gave me, staring at the wooden beams overhead. But all I can see is her face when she told me about Draco Vitale.

The way her voice went flat when she described the abuse. The way her hands shook when she talked about the night he broke her arm. The way she unconsciously touched her wrist, like the bone still remembered breaking even if the fracture had healed.

And I feel something I haven't felt since I woke up with no memory.

Rage.

Pure, cold rage.

Not the confused anger of not knowing who I am. Not frustration at the blank void in my head. This is different. Focused. Sharp as a blade.

I want to hurt Draco Vitale. Want to find him and make him pay for every bruise, every broken bone, every moment of fear he inflicted on Isabella. The desire is so strong it's physical, my hands curling into fists, my jaw clenched so tight it aches, my heart pounding with the need to act.

And the worst part?

I know exactly how I'd do it.

The knowledge is there, just beneath the surface. Not memories exactly, but certainty. I know where to hit to cause maximum pain without killing. I know how to break bones systematically.I know how long someone can endure before they break completely.

I know how to make him suffer.

The realization should terrify me, should confirm every fear I've had about who I am, what I was.

But it doesn't.

Because for the first time since I woke up, the violence in me has a purpose. A target. A reason that feels righteous instead of monstrous.