Chapter Sixteen-Atlas
I shower fast.
Because if I join her—if I let myself so much as look at Cecilia right now—I know I won’t be able to do what needs to be done.
And what needs to be done is justice.
Okay fine. It’s more like just punishment.
Her guards? They work for me. Were appointed by me. And what were they doing?
Ogling my woman like they had any fucking right.
Yeah, maybe I’m a little unhinged where she’s concerned—more like completely fucking gone—but whatever.
This is not something I can simply let go.
My thoughts flick back to her.
Cecilia.
My kardhoúla.
The flash of her skin.
The curve of that defiant mouth.
The breathy little moans in my ear—fuck, now I’m hard for her, and yes, I’m ready to burn the world to ash just to make sure no one else even thinks about touching her.
I’m not used to this.
This need.
This rage.
But I’m not running from it either.
As soon as I towel off, I pull on a black shirt and tactical pants.
My number one—Michail—has already rounded up the three men who had the privilege of guarding my woman today.
The fuckers who didn’t just fail at their job.
They broke a rule I never even had to say aloud before today.
You don’t look at what’s mine.
You sure as fuck don’t talk about her.
And if you even think about her like that?
You die.
It’s just that simple.
They’re waiting for me in the training compound behind the house.
It’s soundproofed—built for discipline, sparring, tactical drills.
Or in this case, well-deserved executions.
I step inside, and the room hushes.
Michail stands off to the side, arms crossed, stone-faced.
My other men—the ones stationed on this particular island domicile—line the walls, watching silently. I don’t need to tell them why they’re here.
They already know. They heard about the punch. They know my anger.
In the center of the room, the three idiots are standing, barely.
One’s got a hand at his throat still—he’s the one I hit on the beach.
He glares at me with eyes that don’t know when to shut the fuck up.
Good.
Let him look.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask, voice like ice.
“Sir,” one of them stammers, stepping forward like he’s about to plead his case. “Apologies—”
I strike before the second syllable leaves his mouth. My boot lands in his stomach with precision and force.
He folds and hits the mat hard, coughing.
I don’t blink.
“You had one job today,” I say calmly, addressing all three. “Watch her. Protect her. Report back. That’s it.”
“Sir,” another one pipes up—wrong move, “With respect, we did not know. She’s just a woman—”
Just a woman.
The phrase clangs through my skull like a goddamn gong.
Rage blinds me.
I lunge.
The blade comes free from my belt and lands at his throat before his dumb mouth finishes moving.
“Say that again,” I hiss, pressing the edge into the soft skin just under his jaw. “Go on. Say it.”
His eyes go wide. Blood drips from where the tip of my blade pierces his skin.
“S-sir, I didn’t mean—”
“You said she’s just a woman,” I repeat, quieter now. “Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You assumed. You thought you were allowed to look, to think, to touch, perhaps?”
“N-no! We didn’t touch!”
“No, you didn’t. So what then? You thought she was available to you? A perk? A toy?”
He swallows hard.
“You always have women,” he says desperately, shaking. “More than one man needs—”
“That’s where you fucked up.”
I lean in.
“She is not women. She is mine.”
And that’s the last thing I say before I make an example of the three of them.
Quick, brutal, necessary.
The one speaking goes down first. A quick slice to his carotid.
The next one begs, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.
He bleeds a lot when I plunge the blade into his gut and slice.
They don’t understand.
None of them do.
But they will.
Cecilia is precious.
She is mine.
And their job is to protect what’s mine when I’m not there.
The last one. The motherfucker with the lewd comments who grabbed his dick while watching my woman? He is bigger. And I can see hate gleaming in his eyes. So I give him a chance.
“Go on, strike.” I tell him.
His gaze flicks to the other man. Former comrades who all glare at him because they know he crossed the line. And like me, they know he has to die.
“Ahh,” he screams and attacks.
All my men are trained well. Didn’t Sigma International Security see to that?
The thing is I trained too. And I’m faster than this asshole.
I hit him in the groin. He falls to his knees. I hit him again in the face. Blood spurts from his nose.
“P-please, sir,” he begs.
And I grab his hair, pulling his head back.
“What was it you said about her before grabbing your dick on the beach?” I ask.
He whimpers. I give his head a shake. He gasps.
“I, I said, this one is thicker than the others, but I bet she’d look good riding my cock,” he grunts.
And my vision doesn’t turn red. This time, it turns black.
I grab his face. Look into his fear filled eyes. And then I twist.
Snap.
When it’s done, I drop him on the cold cement floor.
I’m panting—not from exertion, but from holding myself back.
My blade is tucked back in my belt, blood dripping from it, and my hands are painted in the proof of my vengeance.
Michail steps forward silently, offering me a towel.
I take it, and I take my blade from my belt and clean it.
Then, I wipe the blood from my fingers.
“Get rid of the bodies,” I say, voice steel. “And tell everyone what happens when they step out of line.”
He nods once.
Because that’s how it works.
There are rules.
And then there are consequences.
I sheathe the knife and glance at the watch on my wrist.
Time to shower and get back to her.
Because tonight, she becomes my wife.
And the whole damn world better understand—Cecilia Stavros is off fucking limits. Forever.