The Prototype

44. A Shift

MARCELLUS

Leaning back in my chair, running a hand over my beard, the roughness grounding me for a moment. Her words playing in my mind on an endless loop, as if daring me to make sense of them. Staring up at the clock on the wall, a mid-afternoon, a slow Wednesday creeping by. Yet, the final day of the horse race tournament—this Saturday—looming like a storm on the horizon. I should be thinking about that, about wrapping up the weeks of intense competition. But I couldn't. My thoughts were somewhere else, tangled in a web I didn't ask to be part of.

Tempest.

That damn woman have carved herself into my brain, lodged there like a splinter I couldn't pull out. Trying to focus on the tournament, on the logistics, the men arriving, the horses being prepped. But none of that mattered right now. None of it pulling me out of the space she trapped me in ever since Monday's sit-down.

It wasn't just the things she said. It's how she said them, her tone, her eyes, the way she didn't flinch, didn't blink, just stared straight through me like she knew exactly how to get under my skin. She's always known how to push my buttons, but this time? This time it was different. It wasn't just some power play, some little challenge to remind me she wasn't like the others. This time she was making a statement. She was throwing down the gauntlet, forcing me to see her in a way that pissed me off more than I could admit.

The fucking nerve of her.

She sat there across from me, exuding the kind of arrogance that only someone like her could pull off. And it wasn't the usual kind of arrogance I dealt with, this was personal. She looked at me like she owned the damn room, like she had every right to demand my attention, my respect. She didn't just sit there; she commanded the space, her eyes boring into mine, making it clear she wasn't scared. Not of me, not of anyone.

Any other person would've been dead the second they disrespected me like that. I would've slit their throat without a second thought, wiped the blood off my hands, and moved on. But Tempest? Tempest isn't just anyone. She's a woman who can't be dismissed, much less destroyed without consequence. She's a fucking problem, a dangerous one, and the fact that I hadn't dealt with her yet gnawed at me.

Who the hell does she think she is? Or worse—does she know who I am and just not give a damn? That's the part that kills me. She knows. She knows exactly who I am, what I'm capable of, and yet she stood there, defiant, daring me to do something about it. Like she held the power.

I could still see her face, etched into my memory like a scar. The fire in her eyes, the sharpness of her jawline, the way she leaned forward slightly, just enough to let me know she wasn't backing down. She wasn't intimidated by me. If anything, she thrived on it, on testing me, on seeing how far she could push before I snapped. The way she spoke, like every word was laced with challenge, like she was laying out her terms and expecting me to bend to them.

She wasn't playing the game—I was. And she was dictating the rules. She demanded respect from me, demanded control, as if she had earned that from me. It was fucking infuriating.

I'd walked into that sit-down with a plan. A plan to get her back in line, pull her into my orbit where she fucking belonged, where I could keep an eye on her, control her. But Tempest doesn't do control. She doesn't do submission. She flipped the script on me, flipped the whole goddamn table, and left me sitting there.

I should've killed her right then and there. That's what I wanted to do. I wanted to slit her throat without a second thought, let her blood spill over the polished wooden table, and that would've been the end of it. But I didn't.

Closing my eyes for a moment, trying to push the frustration aside. My mind drifting to everyone at the tournament this past weekend who asked about me and Tempest, after the dispute they had witnessed the previous Saturday. The tension between us, and now they were dying to know what's next. Wanting to know my plan involving Tempest. People coming to me, offering their unsolicited advice, trying to tell me how to handle her as if I needed their fucking input. As if they knew who the hell I'm dealing with.