The bedroom still reeked of piss and fresh cunt when the door groaned wider.

Marcus stepped through like a predator that had already scented blood. Mid-forties, broad-shouldered, forearms corded with old scars, the kind earned from breaking things—or people. His black shirt clung to a chest that had once been carved in violence; now it carried the soft overlay of comfortable cruelty. The bulge in his jeans was obscene even at rest—thick, heavy, the outline so pronounced it looked painful. His eyes—cold slate gray—locked first on Victoria’s exposed, glistening cunt, then slid to Elena’s piss-streaked face and trembling tits.