Page 7 of Poisonous Savage

Andwhen dawn broke, painting the sky with streaks of gold and red, it would find us still there, held in a silent standoff—a dance of power, desire, and the unyielding spirit of a woman who refused to be broken.

ROSALIND

Themorning air was thick with tension asHunterloomed over me, his presence a dark cloud ready to burst. "I'mheading out for a couple of days," he growled.Hisnearly black eyes bore into mine, daring me to challenge him. "SofiaandMarcowill keep you company.Don'teven think about trying anything.Marco'sgot orders to toss you in the basement if you so much as dream of stepping out of line."

Iswallowed the fear that clawed up my throat, nodding slowly as his warning sank in.Theman was a storm, unpredictable and destructive, andIwas caught in the eye.Beforehe left, he jolted me up from the bed and smashed his lips on mine, running this thumb down my nose, catching my bottom lip as he pulled away.

"Bestbelieve you're mine, bride."Hesmacked the side of my face and smirked asIsaid nothing, casting my eyes on the sheets crumpled around my body.

Heleft without another word, boots thudding against the floors.AsIturned away from where his shadow had fallen, my gaze landed on the colossal figure suddenly guarding the entrance.

Thatmust beMarco.Hisframe was all muscle, clearly outlined beneath the tight black tee stretching across his broad chest.Armsfolded, tattoos snaked up his skin, telling stories of violence and loyalty in ink and blood.Hewas an easy 6'6 and 280 pounds.Hislight blue eyes were cold, calculating, missing nothing.Psychoblue,Icalled them.Theypinned me with an intensity that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.Hiseyes roamed my figure asIclutched the sheets to my exposed skin.Hislips curled back in a snarl, revealing a perfect row of white teeth.

Steppingcloser, he stopped to pick up a shirt and some sweatpants, tossing them at me before watching me, arms crossed.Hisdark, touselled hair fell over his eyes, and he reached up to run a hand through it before leaning against the door and scratching the stubble on his chin.Therewas no escaping the dominance that rolled off him in waves, a clear signal that he was not one to be trifled with.Thebrute force thatMarcorepresented was a language all its own, and it spoke of pain and punishment for those who crossed the line.Witha sigh and one last look, he turned to face the hall, allowing me to dress with some semblance of privacy.Pullingon the clothes,Istood with a sigh, mumbling about needing to go get some coffee.

AsIpassed him, our proximity crackled with tension.Myheart hammered against my ribcage.IfwhatHuntersaid was true, thenIreally don't stand a chance at escaping.

Hunter'sabsence gave me some semblance of relief, but it was quickly filled by the oppressive weight ofMarco'spresence, a watchful eye ensuring my compliance.Thiswas my life now, shackled to the whims of men who saw me as nothing more than a wife to settle scores.

Themansion's cold beauty lost its luster with each stepItook, and the expansive halls were nothing more than a lavish prison.Imade the mistake of looking back at my guard.Hiseyes, cold and calculating, landed on me.

Ihesitated, caught in the focus of his stare, feeling like a deer in the headlights.God, this man might be worse than my husband.Husband.Theword made me want to vomit.Theintensity in his gaze shifted, softened almost imperceptibly—a silent recognition of something other than hostility.Curiosity, perhaps even intrigue, flickered across his otherwise impassive features.Thechange wassubtle, a fleeting look that vanished as quickly as it appeared, yet it spiked a curiosity of my own.

Hemoved then, a fluid motion that carried the weight of purpose.Theair around us grew thick asItried to back up.Hisapproach was deliberate, his steps measured, each footfall a beat in the tense silence between us.

"Rosalind," he rumbled, voice low and gravelly, the sound of it scraping against the calmIstruggled to maintain. "Marco."Heoffered his name like a token, a guarded smile tugging at the corner of his lips—sharp, dangerous.

Hiseyes roamed, taking in the details—the fall of my hair, the tightness across my chest, straining against the shirt he threw at me, the way my hands twisted together.Heleaned closer, the scent of sage and sweat enveloping me.

"Enjoyingyour stay?"Thewords were coated in mock politeness.

"Likea bird admires its cage,"Ireplied, my voice steady despite the tumult inside.

"Smartassretorts," he grunted, a flash of teeth in a wolfish grin. "Careful, doll.Wordshave a way of biting back."

"Isthat a promise or a warning?"Icountered.

"Both," he said, his gaze never wavering. "Hunter'snot here to protect you now.Rememberthat."

Hiswords were a cold caress, a reminder of the power he wielded, the danger he posed.Butbeneath the menace, there was something else—a challenge, a question of allegiance and intent.DidIcower?DidIfight?DidIplay the part assigned to me?

"Understood,"Imurmured, meeting his stare with a defiance born of desperation.Iwould not break, not yet.Thehope might be dimmed, but this girl still had fire.

Marconodded once, seemingly satisfied with the flicker of spiritIdared show.Hestepped back, reclaiming the distance between us, the momentary connection severed as if it had never been.Andyet, something burned in that space.AnelectricityIcouldn't- or wouldn't- explain.

WithHuntergone and another kind of darkness pressing in,Iwas left to navigate the treacherous waters of theCinderCrewalone.Thetransformation had begun, the slow descent into a world where innocence had no place and power dictated survival.

Theclink of pots and pans echoed from the kitchen, yanking me from my brooding thoughts.Sofiaemerged, her presence demanding silent reverence.Hersharp features were etched from a life carved in stone—hard lines, cold steel eyes, and streaks of gray that snaked through her jet-black hair like lightning through a night sky.

"Niceto meet you,Rosalind," she said, her voice firm yet laced with an undertone that reminded me of my mother.Nobullshit, no-nonsense—Sofiawas the embodiment of survival, a survivor's gaze set upon me.

Herfootsteps were quiet as she closed the space between us, her hands roughened by years of labor, yet they held a steadiness that betrayed her strength.Shescanned me head to toe as if she could peel back the layers of my soul and see the raw fear beneath my defiance.

"Let'ssee what you're made of," she murmured, a ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of her mouth.Itwasn't comfort she offered, but something far more potent—a lifeline in a sea of chaos.

Istood still, rooted to the spot by the gravity of her scrutiny.Thiswas no mere cook; this was a woman who'd danced with devils and lived to tell the tale—a woman who could forge me into something formidable or see me broken on the rocks of this world.

"Let'sgo.Timeto get your hands dirty, girl,"Sofiacontinued her tone light.

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