“How dare you?” a man roars, and I force my eyes to open. A body is flung across the room, knocking over a chair before it slams against the wall. “How dare you touch what’s ours?”

Fury. Rage. Raw and unfiltered and wholly violent.

I take in the scene.

Men are scattering, scurrying. Trying like hell to get away. Chairs are knocked over. Boots pound heavy on the concrete floor. One almost makes it to the stairs before he’s caught. I lay my body down. Glass digs into my chest, stomach, and thighs, and I wince with the pain, but I can’t look away from the chaos. From the two men pummeling the others. Two men taking on an entire room of soldiers.

This is violence like I’ve never seen before.

No, that’s not right. I’ve seen it once. Blood-splattering, bone-breaking violence. Not a single bullet is fired here, though. Bullets are too easy. Bullets are for when you’re outmanned and outmuscled. A single woman against many men. These two, though they may be outmanned, they have enough rage to fill a fucking stadium. And they use their fists. They want to feel the crunching of bone. They want to drench their hands in blood. And all I can do is watch. Just lie there and watch.

Until they finally turn their attention to me.

The dragons who came to my rescue.

One glance. One furious glance. Cold steel eyes and the burning embers of a fire, so opposite, so alike. I try to move, but I can’t. I’m cold. My body shivers. The bare concrete floor is freezing.

Footsteps like that of an army charge down the stairs. More men. You can’t trust men. I need to get up. I need to run.

I manage to climb to my hands and knees. My body is heavy like I’m dragging my limbs through the thick mud. A few feet from me, Amadeo is smashing his fist again and again into the face of a man on the floor. He’s rendered him unrecognizable. I’m transfixed as blood splatters Amadeo’s face, hair, and clothes. I wish I were strong like him. I wish I could feel the breaking of bones. Wish I could kill them all with my bare hands.

“Brother,” Bastian says, voice hoarse as he wipes the back of his arm across his face, smearing blood. He sets that hand on Amadeo’s shoulder. I watch the brothers, so curious about them—these two violent, angry men who are so devoted to one another.

Amadeo is muttering a mantra and beating the man to a pulp. He doesn’t hear Bastian. Not yet.

“Amadeo. Stop. Don’t fucking kill him. Not yet. That’s too good for him,” Bastian says.