Branded By The Devil's Cruel Kiss

Mortimer's face was covered in blood. His nose was completely flattened. He stared at Ebert with wide, terrified eyes, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

"Mr... Mr. Ewing..." Mortimer stammered, spitting blood.

Ebert didn't say a single word. He pulled his right fist back. The muscles in his forearm corded with tension. He drove his fist forward with the speed of a bullet, smashing it directly into the center of Mortimer's face.

A sickening, wet crunch echoed in the hallway. Mortimer's nose shattered completely. Blood sprayed through the air, splattering against the expensive wallpaper.

Mortimer screamed in agony. He flailed his arms, weakly trying to push Ebert away.

Ebert's left hand shot out, grabbing Mortimer's right wrist. Ebert had snapped Mortimer's arm with a brutal, practiced twist that spoke of a dark, ruthlessly efficient violence.

The loud, crisp sound of bone breaking was unmistakable.

Elie shrank back into the corner of the wall. Her hands trembled violently as she held the torn silk against her chest. She stared at the bloody, brutal scene unfolding inches away from her. The sickening crunch of bone and the metallic stench of warm blood made her stomach churn violently. She shrank back against the wall, a scream trapped in her raw throat.

She had never seen Ebert lose control like this. Even three years ago, on that terrible rainy night, he had been cold and calculating. Now, he was a rabid beast, tearing his prey apart.

Mortimer collapsed onto the floor like a pile of bloody mud. He curled into a ball, sobbing and begging for mercy.

"Please! Please!" Mortimer wailed. "Didn't you... didn't you give her to me as a gift?"

That single sentence hit the absolute core of Ebert's rage.

Ebert raised his leather shoe. He brought it down hard, stomping directly onto Mortimer's fat, bloody cheek. He ground his heel into the man's face.

Ebert leaned down. His eyes were so dark they looked like endless voids. The muscles in his jaw ticked violently. He spoke through clenched teeth, every word dripping with lethal venom.

"She is my property," Ebert growled, his voice vibrating with rage. "Even if she is trash that I threw away, a filthy pig like you doesn't get to touch her."

The words hit Elie like a physical blow to the chest. It was in this haze of visceral terror that his declaration cut through, colder and sharper than any physical blow.

Trash that I threw away.

The tiny, pathetic spark of hope that had ignited when he saved her was instantly extinguished. It turned into a block of solid ice in her stomach.

He didn't save her because he cared. He saved her because of his twisted, psychotic sense of ownership. She was just an object.

The music in the main room abruptly cut off. Davin, followed by four massive bodyguards in black suits, rushed into the hallway.

Davin sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the blood covering the walls and floor. He quickly raised his hand, signaling the bodyguards to step forward.

Ebert slowly removed his foot from Mortimer's face. He turned around. Davin immediately handed him a pristine white handkerchief.

Ebert took it and slowly, methodically wiped the blood from his knuckles.

"Get rid of him," Ebert ordered coldly, not looking at the whimpering man on the floor. "By tomorrow morning, I do not want to see the name Finch Capital anywhere on Wall Street."

Hearing that sentence, Mortimer's eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out from pure terror. The bodyguards grabbed him by his broken arms and dragged him out of the suite like a bag of garbage.

The hallway fell dead silent again. The heavy, metallic smell of blood hung thick in the air.

Ebert dropped the bloody handkerchief onto the floor. He turned slowly and looked down at Elie.

She was shivering uncontrollably. She was missing a shoe. Her red dress was ripped open. The side of her face was swollen and red, and a thin trail of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth.

Ebert's eyes swept over her bruised face. For a fraction of a second, a flash of intense, agonizing pain cracked through his cold facade. But he blinked, and the ice returned instantly.

He reached up and unbuttoned his white dress shirt, stripping it off, leaving him in only a black tailored vest. He threw the white shirt roughly. It landed over Elie's head.

"Put it on," Ebert snapped. His voice was filled with irritation and disgust, as if looking at her made him sick.

Elie fumbled blindly with the fabric. She shoved her arms through the sleeves of the oversized shirt, pulling it tight around her body to hide her exposed skin.

Ebert didn't offer his hand to help her up. He turned on his heel and walked toward the exit. "Follow me," he ordered.

Elie bit down on her bleeding lip. She placed her hand against the wall and forced herself to stand. Her right ankle was swollen to the size of a baseball. Every step sent a blinding spike of pain up her leg.

She limped after him, dragging her injured foot. She looked like a broken ragdoll that had been thrown away, only to be dragged back by its cruel master.

They walked out of the club doors. The freezing night wind hit Elie, making her teeth chatter.

The Maybach was waiting. Ebert stood by the open door, his eyes cold and impatient as he watched her painfully drag herself toward the car.