Two bodyguards pinned Olivia Hayes with effortless precision. No matter how much she kicked or thrashed, she remained a statue in their grip, utterly powerless.

Lawson Price ignored her screeching. He watched the tip of the dagger glow a searing, cherry-red in the open flame, then turned his back on her. He stepped toward Damon Meyer, who was hovering on the brink of blacking out from the agony.

Lawson’s gaze settled on the inner side of Damon’s left forearm.

"Mr. Meyer, you borrowed our young master’s skin without permission. Today, it’s time to pay it back."

Before anyone could react, the blade fell.

"Agh!"

Damon’s neck corded with pulsing veins, his body convulsing violently, yet he was pinned too tightly to move. He could feel the blistering, white-hot metal parting his skin, peeling the layers away.

Lawson’s hand was steady, surgical. In moments, the patch of skin—the one that had once belonged to Ethan Spencer, along with a bit of Damon’s own tissue—was carved away in one clean motion.

Damon couldn't even manage a coherent scream; only shattered, wheezing gasps escaped his throat. Cold sweat soaked his dress shirt, turning it translucent against his skin.

Lawson adjusted his glasses, his tone remaining clinical and icy. "What was done today is merely a fair exchange. The Spencer family doesn’t leave bad debts, nor do we charge interest, but every cent must be paid in full."

He loomed over the man collapsed on the floor, looking down with cold indifference. "Mr. Meyer, the debt on your arm is settled."

Lawson paused, his eyes narrowing. "But there is one more bill to collect."

Damon’s dilated pupils constricted at the words. He stared up at Lawson, paralyzed by a fresh wave of terror.

"Our young master’s sense of smell and taste were destroyed in the fire you ignited." Lawson tipped the blade, catching the light as he brought it toward Damon’s face. "Tell me, how should we settle that debt?"

The steel glinted against Damon’s nose.

"I’m thinking I’ll take your nose... and this tongue that’s tasted so many fine things, and cut them out. You can experience the same loss he did. Does that sound fair?"

"No! No, please!"

Damon’s face turned the color of ash. He scrambled backward, clawing at the floorboards, consumed by a primal, soul-crushing fear. "You can’t do this! Ethan, tell them to stop!"

"I’m the sole heir to the Meyer estate! If you lay a hand on me, the Meyer family will make sure the Spencers never know another day of peace. My father won't let you get away with this—none of you will survive this!"

He was incoherent, screaming, his voice cracking and trembling like a broken reed.

Lawson’s lip curled. He pressed the razor-sharp tip against the bridge of Damon’s nose. Damon felt his blood freeze, his skin crawling as if ice water were being poured over his heart.

"Mr. Meyer, you clearly haven't grasped the reality of your situation," Lawson said softly. "Your father won’t let the entire Meyer family go to the grave just to cover for your stupidity."

Lawson’s gaze hardened, his wrist tightening as he prepared to drive the blade home.

"No, don't! I was wrong! Ethan, I’m sorry! Please, I’m begging you, let me go!"

Damon shattered completely. He crawled toward the sofa, repeatedly smashing his forehead against the floor in a desperate kowtow.

"Mr. Price, please, have mercy! I won't ever do it again! I'll go back and convince my father, the Meyer family will never stand against the Spencers again! Anything you want, I’ll give you! Just don’t cut my nose, don’t cut my tongue!"

His voice was shrill, pathetic, and groveling—a stark contrast to the arrogant, sadistic bully who had threatened to cripple Ethan just moments ago.

Just as the blade seemed poised to slice into his flesh, the sheer weight of his terror broke his last shred of physiological control.

A hot, damp liquid suddenly seeped through his expensive Italian-tailored trousers, spreading into a dark, spreading stain across the floor.

Damon Meyer had lost control of his bladder.