If I found her in some asshole's bed getting groped by a football player, I was going to lose my shit. The rage simmering beneath my skin would boil over, and there wouldn't be enough left of him to identify.
She would be transferred to an online degree or better yet, an all-women’s college run by big burly nuns with heavy rulers that would leave welts on delicate skin.
If I found her unconscious or drugged and getting assaulted by a drunk college student, then I was going to kill him slowly, painfully, forcing him to beg for a mercy that would never come—and then still put her into the girls' school with the big burly nuns.
I didn't know why the thought of someone else touching her pissed me off so much, or why I was so mad at her for putting herself in an unsafe situation.
The possessiveness that surged through my veins was unfamiliar and unwelcome.
When did I start referring to her asmy girl?
If any other college girl had done this, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. It was what college girls did. Hell, if any other women I knew did this, I wouldn't have cared.
I wasn't sure why, but I needed Viktoria to be better. I needed her to be stronger and to not come to such stupid life choices. She was meant for more. For silk sheets and diamond collars, not this cesspool of mediocrity and cheap thrills.
Did she not realize she was in danger?
She was a beautiful woman without her family's protection in a large city. Hell, she was on an American college campus. It was rife with assholes with date rape drugs and administrators who would rather look the other way to avoid paperwork and bad press. My blood froze in my veins at the thought of her vulnerability.
I knew she was aware of the security I had assigned to keep an eye on her. I had told them to keep back and be discreet, but they reported that she had spotted them.
She was clever.
At least, I thought she was.
When I started hearing whispers of people wanting what her father owed them, I increased the surveillance and gave up on discretion. It was a luxury she couldn't afford any longer. The shadows that hunted her were darker and more dangerous than she could possibly imagine.
Which made this party even more treacherous.
Another look around and I couldn't understand why she would even want to be here.
She wasn't some silly little party girl.
She was a survivor, a scholar, and from what I understood, smart enough to fly under the radar. If I had thought she would burn through her college days in a drunken haze, I would have never let her attend.
The naiveté displayed tonight was beneath her. It was disappointing. It was...terrifying.
When I marched into the house, several people stopped and stared at me, their faces draining of color as they registered my presence. But the party lights kept flashing, my temples throbbing from the kaleidoscope of colors. And as more people stopped talking to stare, the music only seemed to get louder, pounding against my skull.
I took out a Glock, the metal gleaming under the chaotic lights, and shot out the sound system.
Immediately the room became silent, the sudden absence of noise almost more shocking than the gunshot.
That was probably a little heavy-handed, but it was effective.
The scent of fear permeated the air, mixing with the alcohol and sweat.
"Where is she?" I barked.
No one answered. The room was so quiet I could hear the rapid, terrified breathing of those closest to me.
"I will not ask again," I said, bringing the gun up with an ominous motion that sent visible tremors through the crowd.
"Who?" A blonde girl with glazed blue eyes, her shirt pulled down so her bubblegum-pink bra was showing, pushed forward. "I bet I can be so much better for you, Daddy."
She wobbled toward me, tripping over her own heels. When she reached out for me, her fingers grasping at empty air, I took a step back and watched as she fell flat on her face. I didn't have time for this shit. Her desperation clung to her like cheap perfume.
"Oh my god, that was so mean," she whined, her cries muffled by the carpet her face was planted in.
