His grip tightened on the collar, cutting off the man’s air slightly.

"Just because I show you basic courtesy and call you my elder, you bastards think you can dance on my head? Think you can disrespect MY household? MY wife?"

He glanced over at Heena’s reddened cheek, visible now with her veil displaced, and his expression became even more dangerous.

"How DARE you touch her. How DARE you strike her."

His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper—which somehow made it more terrifying than if he’d shouted.

"Even ’I’ have never dared to touch her in anger or raise my voice at her. And YOU—"

Samuel grabbed his uncle’s head with one hand and—

’SLAM!’

—smashed it directly into the nearby wall.

The sound of skull meeting solid wood echoed through the suddenly silent room.

The uncle made a choked, gasping sound.

Samuel pulled him back and slammed his head into the wall again.

’SLAM!’

"You."

’SLAM!’

"Dare."

’SLAM!’

"Hit."

’SLAM!’

"My."

’SLAM!’

"WIFE?!"

By this point, the uncle was barely conscious, blood streaming down his face from the head wound caused by the steel bowl and now multiple impacts against the wall.

The other relatives sat frozen in shock.

No one had expected the usually composed, scholarly Samuel to respond with such immediate, brutal violence.

Samuel finally released his uncle, letting the man crumple to the floor in a bleeding heap.

Then he turned to address the rest of the relatives in the room, his expression cold and utterly merciless:

"Let me make something absolutely CLEAR to all of you," he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the room.

"This is MY household now. MY estate. MY authority."

He gestured to the unconscious uncle on the floor.

"Anyone—and I mean ANYONE—who thinks they can disrespect my wife, my household, or my authority will receive the same treatment."

He looked directly at each relative in turn, making eye contact, ensuring they understood he was deadly serious.

"I don’t care if you’re my uncle, my cousin, my father’s oldest friend, or the Emperor’s own brother. If you touch my wife inappropriately, if you speak to her with disrespect, if you dare to raise your hand to her—"

He smiled, but it was absolutely chilling.

"I will destroy you. Completely. Without hesitation. Without mercy."

The room remained in absolute silence.

No one dared to speak. No one even dared to breathe loudly.

Samuel turned to Heena, and his expression immediately softened.

He walked over to her and gently, carefully adjusted her veil back into its proper position, his touch infinitely tender compared to the violence he’d just displayed.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, his hand hovering near but not touching her reddened cheek.

Heena, who had been prepared to handle the situation herself, who had been calculating the most efficient way to incapacitate the uncle without witnesses—

Found herself oddly touched by Samuel’s protective fury.

"I’m fine," she said softly. "Though I think you might have killed your uncle."

"He’s breathing," Samuel said dismissively, glancing at the unconscious man. "Unfortunately."

He looked back at Heena.

"Did he hurt you anywhere else besides your face?"

"Just grabbed my wrist," Heena replied. "Nothing serious."

Samuel’s expression darkened again. "Show me."

Heena pulled back her sleeve, revealing slight bruising where the uncle had gripped her.

Samuel’s jaw clenched.

"I should have hit him harder," he muttered.

Then, to the room at large, he said coldly:

"Someone get this trash out of my sight. Take him to the servants’ quarters to recover. When he wakes up, tell him he’s no longer welcome in this household. Ever."

He looked at the other relatives.

"Anyone who has a problem with that can leave now. I won’t stop you."

No one moved. No one spoke.

They’d all just witnessed what happened to people who challenged Samuel’s authority.

"Good," Samuel said with satisfaction.

He offered his arm to Heena.

"Come. You’ve done enough hosting for today. Let the servants handle the rest."

Heena took his arm and allowed herself to be led from the room, leaving the shocked relatives and unconscious uncle behind.

As they walked down the corridor, Heena said quietly:

"You didn’t have to do that. I could have handled him."

"I know you could have," Samuel replied. "But you shouldn’t have to."

He stopped walking and turned to face her fully.

"You’re my wife. My partner. And no one—absolutely NO ONE—gets to treat you like that while I’m alive."

Heena looked at him, at the fierce protectiveness in his expression, and felt that damned warmth in her chest again.

’Stop,’ she told her traitorous heart. ’Stop feeling things. This is temporary. You’re leaving soon.’

But her heart wasn’t listening.

"Thank you," she said finally. "For defending me."

Samuel’s expression softened. "Always."

Behind them, in the guest room, the relatives were having a very different conversation in hushed, frightened tones:

"Did you see his face?"

"I’ve never seen Samuel like that..."

"He’s become just like his father. Maybe worse."

"We should be more careful..."

"That wife of his—she must be special to inspire such protection..."

And on the floor, the uncle slowly regained consciousness, groaning in pain.

His head throbbed from multiple impacts. His pride was shattered worse than his skull.

And he now understood, far too late, that the young master he’d dismissed as a soft scholar was actually something far more dangerous.

A man who would commit violence without hesitation when his boundaries were crossed.

A lesson learned the hard way.

.

.

.

Ten minutes later in samuel room.

Samuel gently applied a soothing ointment to Heena’s bruised wrist, his touch feather-light, before moving to dab the medicine onto her swollen cheek. Even with the adrenaline fading, he looked exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed the sheer weight of orchestrating a household collapse, a sudden death, and a funeral all at once.

He clearly wanted to stay right there beside her, but the reality of his father’s unburied body and the swarm of vulture-like relatives outside demanded his attention.

Before standing up, he pulled a covered wooden tray from a nearby side table and set it in front of her. As he lifted the lid, the rich, sharp aroma of chili, garlic, and heavily spiced meat filled the room.

Heena blinked, looking from the tray to him. "Someone just died," she pointed out, her tone deadpan. "And you are giving me *spicy* food?"

Samuel didn’t even flinch. He looked at her with absolute seriousness. "You hate bland food. And anyway, the man who died was certainly no saint, so I highly doubt he is in any position to care about our mourning etiquette."

He brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Besides, the only thing I care about is my wife, not the opinions of the world. You need to eat something substantial to regain your strength."

With a final, lingering touch to her shoulder, Samuel turned and left the room. Duty called, and he needed to go manage the chaos.

The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut, the soft, compliant smile vanished from Heena’s face entirely.

She looked down at her wrist, the faint purple bruising stark against her skin, and slowly clenched her fingers into a tight fist.