The smell of his own blood was sharp, but the taste of Anita's fear was sharper. Gotti stayed on one knee for a heartbeat, the wooden spear protruding from his shoulder like a jagged splinter of failure.
Through the haze of pain, he looked up at the ivy-covered balcony. He didn't see the "liability" he had tried to push away; he saw Anita's face, pale and streaked with tears, her small hands gripping the stone railing so hard her knuckles were white. She wasn't terrified of the violence—she was terrified for him.
The realisation hit Gotti harder than the spear. He hated it. He hated that she had a window into his soul, and he hated the sudden, desperate roar of his wolf demanding he stay alive—not for the pack, not for the crown, but for her.
Dante stood over him, laughing, a victor's arrogance dripping from his tongue. "Look at you, Brastov. Bleeding out in front of your little pet. Maybe I'll take her as a trophy since you're too weak to—"
Dante never finished the sentence.
