The moment our honeymoon cruise set sail from Florida, my husband locked the cabin door, cornered me with an aluminum baseball bat. "This is how my dad kept my mom in line," he grinned. I didn't scream. I just cracked my knuckles. He forgot to read the part of my resume where I served as a Marine Corps hand-to-hand combat instructor. In one fluid motion, the bat was mine, and his face was...

The sound of my palm connecting with Gregory’s jaw was a sharp, cracking snap that echoed off the mahogany paneling of the cabin.

His head whipped backward violently, his eyes rolling upward for a fraction of a second as the kinetic energy traveled straight up his cervical spine. The aluminum bat slipped from his numb fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor before sliding under the edge of the king-sized bed.

Gregory staggered backward, gasping for air, his hands flying up to clutch his bleeding lip and throbbing jaw. He hit the minibar cabinet with a heavy thud, sending a tray of crystal glassware crashing down around his ankles.

“What the—” he choked out, staring at me as if I had suddenly transformed into a monster. He tasted the blood on his tongue, his eyes wide with a mixture of agony and absolute, unadulterated shock. “What the hell are you?”

I didn't answer. I didn't waste breath on theatrical speeches. In close-quarters combat, every second wasted talking was a second given back to the adversary to recover.

I stepped forward, closing the remaining three feet between us before he could regain his balance. As he reached out blindly to grab my shoulders, I ducked under his sweeping arm, drove my left forearm upward into the crook of his elbow to hyperextend the joint, and followed through with a sharp, brutal knee strike straight into his solar plexus.

The air left Gregory’s lungs in a violent, ragged wheeze. He doubled over, his knees buckling beneath him as he slid down the front of the minibar cabinet, collapsing onto the shattered glass.

I stood over him, my breathing steady, my posture balanced and ready for any secondary counterattack. My silk dress was slightly wrinkled, and one of my designer heels had lost its tip against the floorboards, but I felt completely grounded. The fog of the past few years had burned away entirely, leaving only the cold, sharp instincts of a Marine instructor.

Gregory looked up at me from the floor, clutching his stomach, his face pale and slick with cold sweat. The charismatic, untouchable venture capitalist was completely gone, replaced by a pathetic, whimpering man drowning in his own terror.

“Ashlynn... please,” he groaned, coughing as he tried to pull himself up against the cabinet. “I... I didn't mean... it was just a joke, a family tradition—”

“A tradition,” I repeated, my voice cold, low, and carrying a razor-sharp edge that made him flinch.

I reached down, grabbed him by the expensive silk lapels of his wedding suit, and hauled him upright with effortless strength, slamming his back against the cabin wall. His feet barely brushed the floor.

“You locked the door,” I whispered, my face inches from his. “You brought a weapon into our honeymoon suite. You intended to break me.”

“No—no, I swear to God—” he stammered, his eyes darting frantically around the room, looking for an escape that didn't exist.

“Listen to me very carefully, Gregory,” I said, tightening my grip until the fabric choked off whatever excuse he was about to manufacture. “Right now, this ship is twenty miles off the coast of Florida. We have seven days at sea before we dock in the Bahamas. If you ever—ever—attempt to lay a hand on me again, or threaten me in any way, I won't just break your jaw. I will dismantle you piece by piece, and I will make sure the ocean claims whatever is left.”

I shoved him backward.

Gregory crashed hard onto the bed, scrambling away from me like a frightened animal, clutching his bruised ribs and gasping for breath. He didn't argue. He didn't threaten. He just stared at me with pure, unadulterated horror, realizing with absolute certainty that he had picked the wrong victim.

I turned my back on him, walked over to the bathroom door, and stepped inside, locking the deadbolt behind me.

The white tile interior was bright, clean, and quiet. I turned on the sink faucet, splashed cold water over my face, and stared at my reflection in the illuminated mirror. My dark hair was slightly messy, but my eyes were steady, sharp, and entirely in control.