No Saint

by Ria Wilde

“Bruise her with that hand,” Gabriel growls, “And you’ll lose it.”

When Gabriel goes to move, I lunge for his wrist, “Don’t.” He stiffens but looks back to his brother, “My men. My city. MY FUCKING WIFE.”

Every hair rises on my body, goose bumps chasing across my skin at the sound of his voice. It was a tone dripping in violence, in rage, his voice low and dangerous and all he says is, “Who?”