ALEXANDER
BAM! BAM! BAM!
My fists slammed into the heavy punching bag with brutal force, the chain rattling violently above me. Sweat poured down my back, but I didn't feel it.
All I saw were the three worthless pieces of shit who had dared to insult my husband, shove him, and try to lay their filthy hands on what belonged to me.
In my mind, I wasn't punching leather. I was peeling their skin off slowly, inch by inch, while they were still conscious. Carving out their tongues so they couldn't scream, breaking every joint one by one, then crushing their throats until they choked on their own blood. No quick death. No mercy. Just long, agonizing hours of pain until their minds shattered.
Killing them would be too merciful. I wanted them to suffer for days—weeks—in some hidden basement, visiting whenever the impulse rose so they would never forget why they should never have looked at Dashiell.
The urge wasn't rage. It was pure, cold intention. A need to eliminate the threat permanently so my little anomaly would never feel unsafe again. I had already memorized their faces. I could make them disappear without a trace.
I stopped punching and wrapped my arms around the bag, hugging it tightly, forehead pressed against the cool leather as I fought to steady my breathing.
I didn't smoke or drink. Those things loosened control, and control was the only thing keeping the beast caged. My parents had known that. They had feared me long before I moved out—rightfully so. Without control, the darkness inside me would consume everything. Every slight, every unwanted glance could tick me off. And I would act without a flicker of regret.
I closed my eyes, breathing through the impulse.
The only thing that kept the beast leashed was iron control.
And Dashiell.
My little anomaly.
The only variable that made the cage worth maintaining.
Then I felt it—slim arms sliding around my waist from behind. A warm body pressing against my sweat-slicked back.
I stiffened for half a second before Dashiell's scent hit me: clean rain, soft vanilla cream, and something uniquely him. The violent static in my head instantly dialed down.
He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of my neck, completely unbothered by the sweat. His hands rubbed slow circles over my chest, then one slid up to turn my jaw toward him.
"You're thinking about killing them," he said bluntly, eyes soft but knowing. "I can feel it in how tight your muscles are. Your amygdala is probably lit up like a Christmas tree right now, but your prefrontal cortex is working overtime to keep everything locked down. That must be exhausting."
He rested his cheek against my shoulder blade, voice calm and clinical yet full of affection. His fingers combed slowly through my damp hair.
Without warning, I gripped his waist and lifted him effortlessly. His legs wrapped around my hips as I turned and pressed his back firmly against the heavy punching bag, pinning him there with my body. The bag swayed slightly, but I held him steady, hands gripping his thighs hard.
Dashiell gasped softly, eyes widening for a moment before they softened again. One hand stayed buried in my hair while the other rested on my shoulder.
I groaned low in my throat and ground my hips up into him, pressing him harder against the bag. The leather creaked under the pressure.
"You're too fucking calm about it," I rasped against his ear. "I want to peel their skin off strip by strip and keep them breathing just so I can do it again tomorrow. And you're here talking about my brain chemistry like it's normal."
Dashiell shivered, legs tightening around my waist. His fingers tugged lightly at my hair.
"It is normal for us," he murmured, direct as always. "You're a diagnosed psychopath with very strong possessive impulses. I'm a neurologist who likes when you choose me over the violence."
He rocked his hips against me slowly, eyes half-lidded.
"I could make them regret existing in the same world as you."
"That's… inefficient," he said, tilting his head. "You're a surgeon. You understand anatomy better than anyone. But you won't. Because you're here with me instead." He leaned in and kissed the corner of my jaw, then my neck, tasting the salt on my skin. "I like that you choose me over the impulse. It makes me feel… wanted. In a very permanent way."
I groaned, grinding against him, one hand sliding under his shirt to grip his bare waist.
"You have no idea how permanent," I rasped. "I could burn the world down and rebuild it around you, and it still wouldn't be enough."
Dashiell let out a soft, shaky laugh that turned into a moan when I rolled my hips again.
"My brain is very loud right now too," he admitted, fingers tightening in my hair. "But it's the kind that wants you to keep holding me like this—sweaty, strong, and completely focused on me."
I kissed him hard, devouring his mouth, one hand sliding under his shirt to grip bare skin.
"Good," I growled against his lips. "Because right now the only thing I want to destroy is how much space is left between us."
Dashiell moaned softly into the kiss, pulling me closer.
"Then stop talking and do it."