Maria's POV
The brothers' eyes were filled with lust.
They stood in a loose semicircle around me, speaking in hushed tones. Arguing. Deciding.
"She's our sister," one said—Marcus, I think. His voice wavered with uncertainty.
"Half-sister," another corrected. Daemon, the oldest. His eyes raked over my exposed body with hunger that made my skin crawl. "Bastard blood. Doesn't count."
"The Countess ordered it," a third added. "If we refuse—"
"Who's refusing?" Daemon grinned, stepping forward. "I've been waiting for an excuse."
"Please," I whispered. My voice was gone. Destroyed by screaming. "Please, someone... save me."
No one moved. No one came.
The brothers reached an agreement with nods and gestures. Money exchanged hands—they were betting on who'd go first.
Then they started approaching.
Daemon led. The others followed like wolves circling wounded prey.
I tried to crawl backward. Hands grabbed my ankles. Pulled me flat against the cold earth.
"No—no—please—"
A shadow fell across us.
The brother holding my left leg looked up.
His head separated from his shoulders before he could scream.
Blood sprayed in a wide arc—hot and wet across my face, my chest, the ground. The body collapsed sideways, hands still gripping my ankle in death.
I didn't understand what I was seeing.
Couldn't process it.
Then Garrett was there.
His axe sang through the air—that enchanted blade I'd worked on in secret, now painted red in moonlight.
Another brother fell. Then another.
Daemon tried to run.
The axe caught him between the shoulder blades. He went down screaming, trying to crawl away with a spine that no longer worked.
Garrett's boot came down on his head. Pressed. The screaming stopped with a wet crunch.
Six brothers dead in less than ten seconds.
The remaining two—the youngest ones, barely fifteen—stood frozen in shock and terror.
Garrett turned toward them.
They bolted.
He let them go. His attention shifted to me—naked, covered in blood that wasn't mine, shaking so hard my teeth rattled.
He shrugged off his jacket without a word. The garment was massive on his frame—would have fit two of me inside it.
He draped it over my body. It covered me completely, heavy and warm and smelling of leather and horse and safety.
"Don't look," he said quietly. His voice was steady despite the carnage. "Close your eyes."
I obeyed, squeezing my eyes shut so tight stars burst behind my lids.
I heard him moving. Heard wet sounds that my mind refused to identify. Heard his breathing—controlled, calm, like he was performing routine maintenance rather than—
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"
The Count's voice shattered the moment.
I opened my eyes.
Count Haroth stood at the practice yard's edge, face purple with rage. The Countess beside him, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
Behind them—soldiers. Guards. Knights of the household, emerging from the barracks with weapons drawn.
Garrett stood in the center of a circle of corpses. His axe dripped red. His face was spattered with blood. His eyes—
His eyes were empty. Cold. Like he'd gone somewhere else entirely and left only killing instinct behind.
"You murdered my sons!" The Count's voice climbed toward hysteria. "You slaughtered them like—like—"
"Like dogs," Garrett finished. His voice was flat. "Because that's what they were."
He planted his axe in the ground. The blade sank deep into packed earth.
"They were going to rape your daughter," Garrett continued. "On your wife's orders. And you watched."
The Count's face went from purple to white. "How dare you—"
"I dare because someone had to." Garrett's hand rested on the axe handle. "Someone had to stop this. Stop you."
"GUARDS!" The Count's arm shot out, pointing. "Kill him! Now!"
The knights moved forward—twelve of them, veterans all, armed with sword and spear and years of training.
One knight alone couldn't take Garrett.
But twelve?
I saw the math play out on their faces. The confidence returning. Numbers would overwhelm skill eventually.
Garrett didn't flinch. Just pulled his axe free and settled into a fighting stance.
"No!" I scrambled to my feet, clutching his jacket around my body. "Stop! Please!"
The knights paused, glancing at the Count for guidance.
I turned, searching desperately for—
"STOP THIS!"
Calla's voice rang across the yard.
She ran toward us, dress billowing, hair loose around her shoulders. The guards who'd been meant to confine her followed uselessly behind.
She positioned herself between Garrett and the approaching knights.
"Mother, Father, this has gone far enough!" Her chest heaved. Tears streaked her face. "Can't you see what you've done? What you've become?"
"Calla, step aside—" the Count started.
"No!" She stood firm. "Maria is my personal maid. Mine. Any judgment concerning her falls under my authority as her mistress."
The Countess found her voice. "Your authority? You're not even married yet! You have no—"
"I have every right!" Calla's voice cracked like a whip. "She serves me. She answers to me. You had no authority to punish her without my permission!"
She turned to face her mother directly.
"And if you try to deny me this—if you try to strip me of even this small power—I'll dissolve my engagement. I'll refuse the marriage. I'll bring shame on this house that you'll never recover from."
Silence crashed down.
The Count and Countess stared at their daughter. At the daughter they'd raised to be perfect, obedient, compliant.
Who was now threatening to destroy everything they'd built.
The Count's jaw worked silently. His hands clenched and unclenched.
Finally, he spoke—voice tight with barely controlled rage.
"Fine." The word came out strangled. "Take your whore maid. Keep her. I don't care anymore."
He stepped closer, and I saw murder in his eyes.
"But this bastard is another matter entirely."
His finger pointed at Garrett like a executioner's blade.
"He murdered my sons. Legitimate blood. Heirs to this house." His smile was terrible. "He'll suffer for that. Days. Weeks. However long it takes for him to beg for death."
Garrett's expression didn't change. He just lowered his axe and planted it in the ground again.
"Do what you want," he said.
No defiance. No fear. Just... acceptance.
Like he'd known this would be the cost and had decided it was worth paying anyway.
"NO!" I lunged forward, still clutching the jacket around my body. "Please! He was protecting me! He saved me from—"
"From my orders," the Countess finished coldly. "From punishment you deserved. He interfered. Now he pays."
"Please," I begged. My voice broke. "Please, I'll do anything. I'll—"
"Enough, Maria."
Calla's hand on my shoulder. Gentle but firm.
When I looked at her, her eyes were wet. Sad. But resolved.
"You can't save him," she whispered. "If you try, Father will just include you in the punishment. Then Garrett's sacrifice means nothing."
"But—"
"I'm sorry." She pulled me close, shielding my body with hers. "I'm so sorry."
The knights moved forward. Grabbed Garrett's arms. He didn't resist.
Just stood there as they bound his wrists. Chained his ankles. Stripped him of his weapons.
His eyes found mine across the yard.
And he smiled.
Small. Barely there. But genuine.
Like he had no regrets.
Like saving me had been worth this.
The knights dragged him away. Toward the dungeons beneath the manor. Toward whatever horrors the Count would devise.
I stood in Calla's arms, covered in blood and jacket, watching him disappear into darkness.
And I couldn't speak.
Couldn't scream.
Couldn't do anything but watch the man who'd saved me be led to his torture.
Because she was right.
I couldn't save him.
I was too weak. Too powerless. Too broken.
All I could do was watch.
And remember.