Page 6 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

"I didn't—"

The knife appears in my hand faster than his eyes can track. The blade hovers an inch from his left pinky finger, andunderstanding dawns across his bruised features. "Please," he whispers. "Please, I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything."

And he does.

Every disgusting detail spills out of him like pus from an infected wound. How he used tutoring to target her. He saw her financial struggles as a weakness to exploit. He thought he could buy her body with the promise of paying her loans. Then, he planned to film it for his friends.

By the time he finishes confessing, my hands are remarkably steady. Twenty years of practice controlling homicidal impulses. Twenty years of learning to channel rage into precise, methodical action. "Thank you for your honesty," I tell him sincerely. "Now, you went there for tutoring. Here's your lesson."

The first fingertip comes off clean. Pinky on his left hand, severed at the knuckle with surgical precision. Josh's scream echoes off the walls of his privileged childhood bedroom, but the house is large, and he's in his own wing.

"This one's for thinking you could buy her," I explain after wrapping the wound with gauze I brought specifically for this purpose. Can't have him bleeding out before we're finished. The second finger, ring finger, same hand, follows thirty seconds later.

"This one's for putting your hands on her."

By the fourth finger, Josh has passed out from the pain. I wait patiently for him to come around, occasionally pressing pressure points to keep him from slipping too deep into shock. We have more work to do. When his eyes flutter open, I show him the plastic bag containing his severed digits. "Six more to go. Would you like to continue?"

He manages to shake his head, tears and snot streaming down his face. His pants wet with urine, and his sheets with vomit. "Please... please stop. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry isn't enough." The fifth fingertip—middle finger, left hand—parts from his body with a wet snap. "But it's a start."

We work our way through his remaining fingers methodically. Each amputation accompanied by a lesson about consent, respect, and the consequences of touching things that don't belong to you.

By the time I finish with his thumbs, Josh Brennan is a broken shell of entitled privilege, sobbing and begging for death.

"You're going to live," I inform him, cleaning my knife on his expensive sheets. "But you're going to remember this night every time you try to use your hands. Every time you see a woman and think she owes you something."

I lean down until my mouth is next to his ear. "And if you ever—ever—come near Amani Greene again, I'll come back and finish what I started. With a blowtorch. You don't report this to the police. You don't file insurance claims. You tell no one what really happened here tonight. Because if Amani gets stressed about this situation, I'll hold you responsible. Got it, kid?"

His eyes roll back in his head, unconsciousness claiming him again. I check his pulse—rapid but steady—and adjust the tourniquets to ensure he won't bleed out before morning.

On his nightstand, I arrange his ten severed fingertips in a neat row. Ten reminders of what happens when someone touches my property. Then I call 911. By the time the authorities arrive, I'll be long gone.

But my message will remain.

***

The next day kills me.

Every hour that passes without seeing her, without confirming she's safe and whole, gnaws at my control like acid. I pace my office like a caged predator, checking the cameras obsessively,watching her move through her apartment with that careful, guarded way that makes me want to hunt down Josh Brennan and finish what I started.

Three times I catch myself reaching for my keys, ready to drive to her building and simply take her. Bring her home where she belongs, where I can protect her properly.

But that would terrify her. And I need her trust more than I need my own peace of mind.

So I wait until her shift is almost over before I walk into Bean There, Done That. The coffee shop smells the same—burnt espresso and broken dreams. But when I scan the room for Amani, something's wrong.

She's behind the counter, mechanically wiping down already clean surfaces. But her usual light has dimmed to a barely flickering candle. Her smile is smaller, forced, and pale, a weak imitation of the sunshine that stopped my heart two weeks ago. The urge to return to Josh Brennan's house with a hacksaw nearly overwhelms me.

I approach the counter with measured steps, studying every detail of her posture. Her shoulders curve inward, as if she's trying to make herself smaller. She maintains a careful distance from male customers. She won't quite meet anyone's eyes. "Coffee?" she asks without looking up, her voice flat and professional.

"What's wrong?"

The question makes her freeze mid-wipe. When she finally glances up, I catch a glimpse of something fragile and wounded before she looks away again. "Nothing. Just... tired. Long week."

I don't respond. Just stand there, letting my presence fill the space between us until she's forced to acknowledge it. When she looks up again, her dark eyes are bright with unshed tears.

"You need to sit down." My voice comes out harder than intended, edged with frustration at her pain and my inability to simply fix it.

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