A vow of Violence

The smell of fear was sweeter than the orchids. I watched the color drain from my brother's face. Harrison. The man who had paid the Colombian cartel to toss me overboard five years ago. He looked good. polished. Soft. And Isolde... My gaze drifted to her. Five years ago, she had been a girl of twenty-two, shy and bookish. Now? She was a goddess carved from ice and sin. The midnight blue dress left nothing to the imagination, hugging hips that were wider, softer, more dangerous than before. Her skin glowed under the chandeliers, a creamy contrast to the dark fabric. She looked like a prize. My prize, sold to the highest bidder. "Julian?" Lord Alistair choked out. "My boy... we thought..." "You thought I was fish food," I finished, stepping closer. Two security guards-ex-SAS, by the look of their stance-moved to intercept me. They were the Thorne family's dogs. Highly paid, highly trained martial artists. No superpowers here, just physics and brutality. "Sir, you need to step back," the first guard grunted, reaching for my shoulder. I didn't stop walking. As his hand touched my trench coat, I moved. It wasn't a technique you learned in a dojo. It was a technique you learned in the fighting pits of Macau. I grabbed his wrist, twisted his center of gravity, and drove my elbow into his solar plexus. Crunch. The sound of cracking ribs echoed through the silent ballroom. The guard collapsed, wheezing. The second guard swung a heavy fist. I didn't block. I slipped inside his guard-a slip so fast it blurred-and drove the heel of my palm into his jaw. His head snapped back, eyes rolling into his head. He hit the floor unconscious before the first guard had even finished falling. Total time: three seconds. I adjusted my cuffs. "Your security is lacking, Father. You should ask for a refund." The room erupted into gasps. Women clutched their pearls. Men stepped back, terrified of the violence yet unable to look away. This was the thrill they craved. The savagery hidden beneath their tuxedos. I walked up the steps to the podium, invading Harrison's personal space. He smelled of fear sweat and expensive cologne. "Julian," Harrison stammered, trying to regain his composure. "We... we buried an empty casket. We mourned you." "I bet you cried tears of joy," I whispered, leaning in so only he and Isolde could hear. "Happy engagement, brother." I turned my gaze to Isolde. Up close, she was devastating. The scent of jasmine and rain clung to her. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips parted in shock. I could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. "Isolde," I said, my voice dropping an octave, rough with five years of unsaid words. "You haven't aged a day. You've just grown... sharper." "Julian," she breathed. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her. She wasn't scared of me. She was intrigued. "You're supposed to be dead." "I was," I said, reaching out. I ignored Harrison and took her hand. Her skin was warm, electric against my cold fingers. I brought her knuckles to my lips, maintaining eye contact. The heat in her eyes flared. "But death didn't want me. So now, you're stuck with me." I turned to the crowd, raising my voice. "I am formally contesting the transfer of the Thorne Estate," I announced. "And as for this engagement... consider it under review."