<h4>Chapter 44: _ Kill For Her</h4>


    I smiled at María José in a reassuring way, hiding the hurricane brewing beneath my skin.


    "And what exactly did Luis Miguel do?" I asked in a deceptively calm voice.


    Because I needed to know.


    Because if he had done anything—anything—to make my precious, innocent flower suffer...


    Then I was going to make him suffer, too.


    Tenfold.


    I was never a patient man. I preferred my problems to be solved swiftly, preferably with a knife between someone’s ribs or a bullet lodged in their skull.


    It was cleaner that way—efficient. But as María José recounted what those kids did to her, I found myself gripping the wooden crate beside me so tightly that my fingers ached.


    "Wait," I said in a dangerously calm tone. "You’re telling me they made you trip over a tomato stall, then stole your father’s money to pay for it?"


    She nodded, her fingers twisting in the hem of her skirt.


    "And now you have to work at the butchery to cover the cost so your father doesn’t find out?"


    Another nod.


    I exhaled slowly through my nose. I had nned to kill Luis Miguel and his little pack of bastard friends tomorrow or the day after.


    It was going to be brutal, satisfying, and, most importantly, final. But this...


    This required something far worse than death.


    I could feel my anger stirring beneath my skin and the rage coiling tight in my chest. I was angry before, but now? Now, I was volcanic. Molten.


    "Why did you let them take your money? Why did you let them bully you? Why can’t you stand up for yourself?" I demanded, unable to wrap my head around why she could be so weak.


    Was it because she was wolfless?


    Was that the solution to her problems? Having a wolf? Hold up... What if I helped her with that?


    What if I used my immense power to find María José a wolf and help her reim all of her lost glories?


    Her head snapped up, her eyes shing. "I didn’t <i>let </i>them."


    I scoffed. "Obviously, you did, or else you’d still have it."


    "They held my hands," she bit out. "And Luis Miguel—" She broke off, swallowing hard.


    A cold dread slithered down my spine. That reaction meant something. I hoped to hell that they didn’t do more to her.


    "<i>What </i>did he do?"


    Her gaze dropped. "He... kissed me."


    <strong><i>What?! </i></strong>


    <i>Kissed her?!</i>


    <i>My pretty innocent flower?!</i>


    HOW DARE HE?!


    I seethed in silence.


    The kind that sucked the air from the room, pressing down with the weight of something terrible and inevitable.


    I had heard people say their vision went red with rage, but I never truly believed them until now. The world around me bled into a haze, my jaw tightening until it ached. My hands itched for violence. For revenge. For the sweet satisfaction of making Luis Miguel choke on his own teeth.


    He kissed her.


    He. Kissed. <i>Her. </i>


    It wasn’t just the act itself—it was the audacity. The vition. He had touched what was mine. And María José... she had been powerless to stop it.


    I wanted to burn the town down. I wanted to rip out his throat with my teeth. I wanted to y him alive and wear his skin as a warning to any other bastard who thought they could put their filthy hands on <i>my </i>María José.


    But I didn’t do any of those things.


    Instead, I smiled.


    It was slow. Dangerous. The kind of smile that made men pray to gods they didn’t believe in.


    I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, plotting the demise of Luis Miguel’s dignity, but at some point, María José shifted beside me, and when I looked down, her fingers were hovering just above mine.


    I stared at them, fascinated.


    They were small—thin, her nails still lined with the faintest traces of dirt. And for some ridiculous, iprehensible reason, the sight of her hands—her tiny, imperfect, <i>beautiful</i> hands—made something warm and vicious settle in my chest.


    Before I could stop myself, I reached out and took them in mine.


    She gasped, startled – her wide eyes darting to our joined hands.


    I followed her gaze, only to find something that made my stomach twist unpleasantly—blood. ra’s blood.


    Shit.


    I released her immediately, wiping my hands against my pants. "I was helping in the kitchen," I exined. "With the chickens."


    Her lips quirked. "You? Butchering chickens?"


    I arched a brow. "Why do you sound so surprised?"


    She shrugged. "You don’t seem like the type to get your hands dirty."


    I huffed augh. "You have no idea."


    She really didn’t.


    To my surprise, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she gave me a small smile and said, "It’s fine. I don’t mind. I’m not any better myself. If not worse."


    That made me pause.


    I studied her closely—the red strands of hair clinging to her damp forehead, the bruises still faintly visible along her jaw, the way she held herself, like someone who had learned to make herself small.


    And then, softly, I said, "You shouldn’t talk like that."


    She blinked. "Like what?"


    "Like you’re dirty. You’re not." I held her gaze, affirming. "<i>You’re</i> the cleanest, most precious thing I’ve ever seen."


    Sheughed, and God, it was beautiful. Soft and surprised, like she hadn’t expected the words but liked the way they felt.


    "That’s weird," she admitted. "Everyone either feared me when I was my father’s favorite or looked down on me once I became an Omega. No one’s ever talked to me the way you do."


    I smirked. "Maybe I’m just different."


    Her smile widened. "I’m d."


    There was something about the way she said it—so simple, so <i>earnest</i>—that made my chest ache.


    I wanted to give her the world.


    Hell, I wanted to <i>burn</i> the world for her.


    "I’m here for you," I murmured. "I’ll be anything you want me to be."


    She tilted her head, considering me. "Why?"


    I opened my mouth, then closed it.


    I had no idea.


    But I nned on figuring it out.


    She chuckled. "You’re sweet, Luis."


    Sweet.


    Sweet.


    I had spent my entire life being called many things—pitiful, bastard, ipetent. But never <i>sweet</i>.


    And yet, hearing it from her made something inside me <i>settle</i>.


    I was still in my thoughts, thinking of the best way to respond to her words. To respond to being called <i>sweet </i>when an ungodly wet sound filled the air.


    It was followed by an absolutely <i>heinous</i> stench.


    <i>Oh, please... </i>


    We both froze.


    Then, slowly, we turned our heads toward the pigs.


    One of them was happily rooting in a pile of something I refused to acknowledge, making the kind of noises that could only be described as a mix between a clogged drain and an exorcism.


    My stomach turned. "That’s disgusting."


    María José gagged. "Oh my God—"


    I ripped off my jacket and threw it over her, shielding her from the horror.


    She stared up at me, startled. "Mateo—"


    "Shh," I whispered. "Don’t speak. The smell might go in your mouth."


    <i>She snorted</i>—actually <i>snorted</i>—before breaking intoughter.


    And just like that, I was done for.