Page 65 of A Forbidden Arrangement
Xander stands tall, chest heaving, breath ragged, eyes wild and searching. There’s blood on his knuckles, and his suit jacket hangs open, one sleeve torn.
Every inch of him looks carved from fury.
His gaze sweeps across the room, sharp and fast, scanning for me. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t even look human. He looks like something pulled straight out of a nightmare.
A broken sound slips from my throat, half sob, half relief. The second it escapes, his head whips toward me, and the wildness in his eyes softens.
His gaze stays on me, checking every inch like he’s counting my breaths.
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
That’s all it takes.
Something in him fractures. The concern in his face freezes, hardening into something cold and merciless. The warmth I’dclung to is gone, and the air itself seems to drop ten degrees. His brows lower, shadowing his eyes, and the man I know vanishes beneath something far darker.
He steps forward, slow and deliberate, a predator closing in on its prey.
“Close your eyes, Dahlia.”
I want to obey, but I can’t. Not with Elliot dragging himself backward across the floor toward the men who helped him.
“Don’t bother.” Xander snatches a knife from the table. He tests the edge with his thumb, a bead of blood rising before he smiles without warmth. “They can’t protect you.”
The men’s voices collide in a rush of pleading, cut short one by one.
Elliot’s rage had been precise and cruel, sharpened by ego and wounded pride.
Xander’s is silent. Controlled. Inhuman.
There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s going to kill every man in this room.
I don’t move. Don’t look away. My heart should be racing, but it’s not. My pulse slows. My breathing evens. I watch him end them one after another, precise and efficient. The sound of steel sinking into flesh replaces the begging. Blood spreads across the tile, inching toward me.
Elliot is the last one left.
Xander grips his hair and jerks his head back. No words. No warnings. Just the smooth, quiet thrust of his arm as the blade sinks deep. The knife disappears into Elliot’s mouth and out the side of his neck.
Xander’s shoulders rise and fall with every ragged breath. The air still hums with violence, but then something shifts. The ice around him cracks.
He turns toward me, eyes no longer wild but desperate. Concern floods through the fury as he drops to his knees in front of me. His hands reach out, then stop midair.
“Fuck.” He pulls back like he’s been burned, fists clenching at his sides. His gaze drops to the floor between us. The muscle in his jaw ticks. His throat moves with a hard swallow.
“Please don’t be afraid of me.” His voice is rough and unsteady. “I don’t think I could take it.”
The sane part of me knows it should. I should be terrified. What he did here is worse than anything I saw in that alley. But that part of me is quiet. Because I know what this was. He didn’t kill for power or revenge. He did it because I was the one they hurt. Because to him, there was no other choice.
I reach for him, palms framing his face. His skin is hot under my hands, slick with sweat and blood. He tenses, but I pull him closer and run my thumb beneath the cut below his eye.
“You’re hurt.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes locking on mine, searching for the fear he expects to see. There isn’t any. I let him see that. I let him feel it in the way I stay close, in the steadiness of my hands.
His gaze flicks over me then, quick and frantic, scanning for damage. His fingers hover near my arm but never touch. “Did they hurt you?” His voice cracks, barely above a whisper.
“I told you I’m okay,” I say softly. “Barely a scratch.”
He exhales shakily, but the tension doesn’t leave until I catch his wrist and press his hand flat against my side, letting him feel that I’m whole. His eyes close, relief shuddering through him.
