I didn't see the room.
I saw red.
Isabella—half-naked, torn clothes barely clinging to her skin, her chest exposed in a way that made my blood boil—not from desire, but from fury. She was tied down, vulnerable, trembling but defiant.
Two men hovered over her. One's pants were undone, his hand shamelessly roaming himself. The other was inches from her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just above her collarbone, his breath hot and malicious.
I didn't think.
I moved.
The first one turned with a knife. Too slow.
I caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted—SNAP.
His scream was short-lived. My fist crushed his temple with a sickening crunch. He dropped before he hit the ground.
The second froze, his hand still wrapped around himself. Disgust flooded me—white-hot, blinding. I was on him in a blink, smashing his face against the floor, over and over, until the tiles were slick with blood.
