Chapter 4
ROAN
He’s going to follow her.
Even as the realization crystallizes, the bastard is rising from his seat and moving towards the exit, a dark storm cloud brewing over his face.
“Leave it be,” Dhimiter says from across the table, tracking my gaze with the kind of knowing look that comes from years of friendship. He can read my thoughts before I fully form them—a useful trait in a second-in-command, annoying as hell in a friend.
“He’s going to hurt her.” My hands ball into fists at the thought. I don’t know what Ate was thinking, hiring a civilian and bringing her onto the estate, but she’s here now. Under my protection.
“Then send someone else to deal with it,” Dhimiter replies.
But I’m already on my feet, shrugging off the feminine hand on my shoulder to Irena’s disgruntlement.
Send someone else? No. This is my estate, my men.
I’ll deal with it myself.
I pull my jacket back on as I head for the door, barely registering Dhimiter’s heavy sigh behind me. He’s getting to his feet too, apparently, but I don’t give a shit what he does. He can stay here with the women while I deal with this for all I care—I don’t need backup to handle one drunk asshole.
The guards at the door snap to attention when I emerge, but I’m already moving past them, my strides eating up ground as I make my way towards the maids’ quarters where I’m hoping Mia went.
Then I hear it—the unmistakable sound of fist meeting flesh.
Motherfucker. Is he actually beating up a woman for rejecting him?
Rage floods my system, hot and vicious. I’m going to lock that son of a bitch in the frigorifer for twenty–four hours without water or food, and while he’s delirious from hypothermia, I’ll—
I stop mid-stride, stunned.
What the fuck?
My mouth falls open at the sight before me.
She’s standing over the guy, who’s doubled up and groaning like a wounded animal, shielding his stomach. Before he can recover, her fist drives into his jaw with a crack that splits the quiet night. He grunts as he stumbles away from her, his hands coming up too slow to block her next hit.
She moves fast—shockingly fast—with a fluid precision I never expected. A sharp kick to his shin, a brutal elbow to his gut, and he folds again, wheezing out curses. But she doesn't let up.
Every strike is ruthlessly efficient, calculated. There’s no flailing, no hesitation. Just practiced violence wrapped in calm control.
I thought she was in danger? She is the danger.
Beside me, a shadow materializes from the darkness—Dhimiter, silent as always, now watching the scene unfold with the same hooked attention I am. “Should we stop her?” he murmurs, amusement threading through his voice.
“No.” My voice is low, even. My eyes never leave her. “Not yet.”
I need to see how this plays out.
“Next time, think twice before attempting to hurt a woman who clearly told you she isn’t interested,” she snaps at him.
But he’s not paying attention to her words—too busy trying to defend himself from her assault.
It’s pathetic really, watching one of my trained men be brought down to his knees. Literally.
Her elbow smashes into his throat, and he makes a choking, gurgling sound, clutching at his neck as he crumples under the blow.
Grabbing his collar, she yanks his face up, forcing him to meet her blazing eyes. “How does it feel getting beat up by a girl?” she hisses. “By the help?”
Ah. So that’s what set her off. My lips curl up, fascination worming its way into my chest.
He whimpers, thoroughly humiliated, his shoulders slumping forward before he face-plants into the dirt, sobbing. “Please… stop. I’m sorry. Just… stop. Please.”
Her eyes narrow dangerously as she rolls her fist, clearly considering whether he’s suffered enough. “You gonna tell anyone about this?”
He shakes his head frantically as he pushes himself up on trembling arms. “No. Of course not. You think I’m going to brag about getting beat up?”
“Good.” She kicks him square in the chest, and he lands on his back, immediately scrambling away from her on his elbows.
“Shit,” Dhimiter whispers, a hint of surprised admiration in his tone. “Didn’t know the maid had it in her.”
“Neither did I.” My smirk widens into something darker. Because now I’m sure—Mia Jorge isn’t who she claims to be. She’s a liar. But I’m going to find out exactly who she really is.
And God help her when I do.
I step out of the shadows, clapping slowly. I’ve seen enough.
Mia’s eyes go wide with surprise when she sees Dhimiter and me, and she takes an instinctive step back. I ignore her for now, focusing instead on the pathetic heap of a man on the ground who quickly scrambles to his feet, wincing and grunting as he forces himself to stand at attention before me.
At least he still remembers who’s in charge.
“What’s your name?” I ask, my voice deceptively mild.
“Frederik, sir,” he answers, his voice scratchy and strained, like he’s in agony as he clutches his stomach.
I eye him without an ounce of sympathy. He deserves everything he got. And more. “Frederik,” I repeat softly. “Go with Dhimiter and wait for me in the frigorifer.” The refrigerator—though it’s really a cold room. A very, very cold room.
Frederik’s face goes pale as my second-in-command grabs his arm. “I’ll see to your wounds there,” Dhimiter says, but his smile is all teeth, promising nothing good.
Once they disappear into the darkness, I turn my attention back to Mia—or whatever her real name is. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
She’s silent for several heartbeats, watching me carefully, clearly trying to determine how much I saw. Then she shrugs. “It’s not so much my skills as his lack of them.”
She’s quick with her words, clever even under pressure.
Little liar.
I chuckle darkly, the sound seeming to ripple through the night air. She shivers visibly, her expression becoming arrested as she stares at me. “You’re a little liar, you know that?” I take a deliberate step closer, my gaze fixed on hers as I let the words hang between us.
Her expression shifts instantly, becoming blank as she retreats two steps. But there’s something sparking in those blue eyes—that same sharp intelligence I noticed when I first met her.
You can’t hide it now. I see you.
“A little liar?” she echoes, arching a brow. “Isn’t that a stretch? I only defended myself from someone trying to hurt me.”
“Genjeshtareza e vogel,” I murmur, the Albanian words I’ve never had reason to use rolling off my tongue like they were made for this moment. "You expect me to believe that? Don’t insult me. That was no 'lack of skills.'"
I know for a fact that Frederik is well-trained because I personally oversaw the program. Maybe not one-on-one, but I booked sessions with professionals, made sure every man under my command could handle themselves in a fight. My men are good.
But somehow, she’s better.
She stiffens—for just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for me to notice. I notice everything about her.
I close the remaining distance between us, my gaze never wavering from hers.
“No, Mia,” I continue, my voice lowering.
"Frederik has skills. You simply out-skilled him. I can see it in your eyes, in the precise way you hit him. You’ve been trained.
Professionally. But you’re not going to admit that, are you? ”
She tilts her head, her fingers brushing over her jeans, almost as if she’s trying to wipe away evidence or hide her internal turmoil. "You don't know anything about me." Her voice stays admirably cool, but I catch a tremor beneath it.
Guilt? Fear?
I lean in even more, until all I can breathe in is her, until she fills my entire field of vision.
“Maybe not. But I know a lot more than you think,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, close enough to feel her sharp intake of breath.
"And genjeshtar... don’t think for a second I’m buying your act. " Liar.
She jerks back quickly, nearly stumbling in her haste—her gaze sharp and challenging even as a blush creeps across her cheeks.
Cute.
Chin high, eyes flashing, she works her lips for a moment before pushing the words past them. “Can I be dismissed? Sir.”
The ‘sir’ was definitely an afterthought.
I wave a dismissive hand, and she spins around, practically running to escape my presence. I watch until she disappears from view, then pull my phone from my back pocket and text Lorik, my private investigator.
I want you to look into someone pretending to be Mia Jorge. Blonde, blue-eyed, seems American. Attaching her photo.
I send the surveillance image I captured of her this afternoon. The message shows as delivered almost immediately.
Let’s see who you really are, little liar.
Once my phone is locked and slipped back into my pocket, I turn towards the frigorifer, my mind already shifting to the next problem that needs handling.
Frederik.
What punishment would be fitting for a man who thought it was acceptable to hurt a woman under my protection? I need to set a precedent here—make it crystal clear to every soul on the estate that this kind of behavior won’t be tolerated under any circumstances.
What if Mia hadn’t been able to protect herself and I hadn’t been nearby?
The thought sends cold fury through my veins. I won’t allow my estate to descend into lawless chaos. That’s not how I run things.