"Katelyn??!! This isn't—" Beltar spluttered, his face draining of color, then flushing beet-red. He yanked at his belt, fumbling like a green boy.
"It was nothing, just talk, strategy—"
"Stop." Her voice cracked like a whip, eyes hard as flint. She stepped forward, releasing Aragon's hand only to jab a finger at her husband's chest. "I saw everything. Heard your grunts, your promises to 'fill her.' No more lies."
Aragon stood sentinel beside her, arms crossed, exuding the calm authority of a lord unchallenged. He let the silence stretch and then spoke, his voice smooth as oiled steel.
"If you don't mind, Beltar, I'll take your wife."
Confusion furrowed Beltar's brow first—genuine, boyish bewilderment.
Then realization dawned: the rumpled gown, Katelyn's swollen lips, and the wet gleam on her inner thighs peeking from hiked fabric. Rage ignited, fists clenching, veins bulging in his neck. "You... you fucked her? Here? While I—"
