Keven charged like an enraged bull, pulling his right arm back to throw a wild, heavy punch straight at Donavon's face.

To Donavon, the movement looked pathetic. In his past life as Coyote, he had dodged bullets and fought trained assassins. Keven's sloppy swing moved in slow motion.

His mind screamed for him to perfectly counter, but his new body betrayed him. The female muscles didn't fire with the explosive speed he calculated. The wind from Keven's fist brushed against his cheek. Donavon panicked, dropping his center of gravity purely by accident, stumbling awkwardly under the punch. In a frantic, adrenaline-fueled scramble, he grabbed Keven's extended right arm with both hands. With a desperate, uncoordinated heave, he used the entirety of his body weight to shove Keven forward, violently twisting the trapped arm in the process.

Crack.

A sickening pop echoed through the hallway.

Keven let out a blood-curdling scream. His knees buckled, and he slammed face-first into the wooden banister.

Donavon pinned him there, pressing his forearm against the back of Keven's neck. If he applied one more inch of pressure, the wrist would snap completely.

Jacquelin collapsed against the wall, screaming hysterically. "Help! Somebody help! She's trying to kill him!"

The massive oak door of the master bedroom flew open.

Dara stepped out into the hallway. She was wearing Donavon's black silk robe, her broad shoulders squared, radiating absolute dominance.

She looked down at the chaos.

Jacquelin saw her 'son' and scrambled toward him, grabbing the hem of his robe. "Donavon! Look what she did! She went insane and attacked us!"

Dara looked at Keven, who was sobbing against the railing, and then at Donavon, whose face was a mask of cold, calculated violence.

Dara didn't look at Jacquelin. She opened her mouth, letting the deep, authoritative rumble of Donavon's voice fill the corridor.

"Enough."

The single word hit the air like a physical weight. The screaming stopped instantly.

Dara walked over to Donavon. She met his eyes and gave a microscopic shake of her head. Let him go before you break it.

Donavon let out a disgusted scoff. He shoved Keven away like a piece of garbage. Keven crumpled to the floor, cradling his swollen wrist and groaning.

Jacquelin looked up at Dara, her eyes shining with malicious triumph. "Throw her out, Donavon. Call the police and have her arrested for assault."

Dara turned slowly. She looked down at Jacquelin with a gaze so cold it could freeze water.

"I am sick of this pathetic circus in my house," Dara said, her voice dripping with venom.

She pointed a massive finger at Jacquelin. "As of this moment, your two black Centurion cards are frozen."

Jacquelin's jaw dropped. The color drained from her face. "What?"

Dara shifted her gaze to Keven, who was whimpering on the floor. "And your trust fund distribution for next month is suspended."

"You can't do that!" Keven yelled, his voice cracking.

Jacquelin stood up, her face twisting in outrage. "Donavon Monroe! I am your mother! Have you lost your mind? You are punishing your own family for this... this whore?"

Dara took one step forward, closing the distance. She leaned down, her physical presence completely overwhelming the older woman.

"Are you telling me how to run my finances?" Dara asked softly, the threat hanging heavy in the air.

Jacquelin shrank back, terrified by the murderous look in her son's eyes. She clamped her mouth shut.

Before Dara could order them out of the house, the heavy front doors downstairs slammed open.

The synchronized, heavy thud of combat boots marching onto the marble floor echoed up to the second story.

The freezing morning wind swept into the grand foyer, carrying with it an oppressive, suffocating tension.

Harrison Monroe walked through the double doors.

He leaned heavily on a silver-headed cane shaped like an eagle. His silver hair was perfectly slicked back, and his sharp, predatory eyes missed nothing. He was the patriarch, the shadow ruler of the Monroe empire.

Harrison stopped in the center of the foyer. He looked up at the second-floor landing, taking in the sight of Keven on the floor and Jacquelin trembling against the wall.

The temperature in the house plummeted.

Jacquelin's demeanor shifted instantly. The furious banshee vanished, replaced by a weeping, fragile victim. She hurried down the stairs, practically throwing herself at Harrison.

"Harrison, thank god you're here," she sobbed, clinging to his arm. "It's absolute madness."

Harrison looked at her with mild disgust. He pulled his arm away and slammed the metal tip of his cane against the marble floor.

Clack.

The sharp sound cut through the room like a gunshot.

"Everyone. In the living room. Now," Harrison ordered. His voice wasn't loud, but it demanded absolute obedience.

Dara took a deep breath, forcing her heart rate to slow down. She needed to channel Donavon's arrogant, detached persona perfectly.

She walked down the stairs with slow, heavy steps. Donavon followed closely behind her, his face pale but his jaw set.

They entered the massive living room. Harrison walked straight to the single leather armchair at the head of the room and sat down. He rested both hands on the head of his cane.

He stared directly at Dara.

"Explain to me why your wife is assaulting your brother in the hallway," Harrison demanded.

Dara met his gaze coldly. "Keven provoked her. He took a swing and missed. He's weak."

Harrison's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. The blatant disrespect in his son's tone was unacceptable.

Harrison slowly turned his head, locking his predatory gaze onto Donavon.

"You," Harrison spat, his voice dripping with aristocratic contempt. "Three years in this house, and you still reek of the gutter. You are a commoner who got lucky, and you dare raise your hand against a Monroe?"

Donavon stood perfectly still. Hearing his own father speak to his wife with such vile, unfiltered hatred made his blood run cold.

"Pour me my drink," Harrison ordered, flicking his fingers toward the crystal bar cart in the corner.

It was a blatant submission test. He was treating the lady of the house like a servant.

Dara tensed, her eyes darting to Donavon. She knew Donavon's pride. She prayed he wouldn't snap.

Donavon ground his teeth together. For the sake of the NDA and their survival, he swallowed his pride. He walked over to the bar cart.

He grabbed the expensive bottle of Macallan. He didn't bother with the silver tray. He didn't use the ice tongs to place the spherical ice.

He just splashed a heavy pour of whiskey into a glass, walked over, and slammed it down onto the glass coffee table with one hand.

The glass hit the table with a loud, disrespectful clatter.

Harrison stared at the glass. No ice. No tray. Slammed down like a cheap beer in a dive bar.

His face turned a violent shade of purple. He saw this as an unforgivable act of defiance from a woman he already despised.

Harrison surged to his feet. He gripped his silver cane with both hands, raising it high into the air.

With a vicious grunt, he swung the heavy metal rod down, aiming directly for Donavon's collarbone.

A strike that hard would shatter the bone instantly.