The air shattered.
Ian knocked the chair back in a blur of movement, the heavy oak crashing against the floor as he twisted from the hands trying to restrain him.
His right elbow slammed into a jaw behind him—a sickening crunch followed—and the man dropped, clutching his face, blood streaming through his fingers.
Ian didn't pause.
Not for a second.
He pivoted, grabbed the second by the collar, and yanked him forward—straight into the corner of the dining table.
Wood cracked. So did ribs.
The man dropped without a sound.
The woman gasped sharply beside him, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide in horror—but beneath it, something else flashed in them.
Relief.
The rest of the room reacted late. Maybe they hadn't expected it to go loud so quickly. Maybe they thought the name Sanctum would inspire fear, not retaliation.
It didn't.
Not in Ian.
