AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter was written for (mainly) Razorfang. After your review, I got to thinking and realized that, not only did you make sense, I totally and completely agreed with you. So, with that written, hope you enjoy the following.

Finally, after hours of waiting, she did what he knew she'd do, confirming everything he'd assumed. This house was no longer hers, this place no longer a source of comfort. She cringed as she shut the door behind her, oblivious of the watching shadow above. With a sigh of relief, she blindly made her way towards the northwest corner of the ranch. From his vantage point he could see the exact moment that she slipped inside the little room.

He was nothing more than a shadow, a whisper. He dropped down from the stable roof. His muscles cried out in cold, cramped agony, but his blood was hot with rage. He licked his lips and glanced at the uppermost window of the house. He saw, to his delight, that the window was open, the cool night breeze blowing gently through it. There… there he was sure to find what he was looking for.

With a dark, dangerous glint in his eyes he proceeded. The tall tree at the side of the house was easy to scale. He did so quickly and agilely, making no nose whatsoever. There was only the slightest of thuds as he pulled himself up onto the roof of the large house.

There was nothing more than a brief stilt in the breeze to give away his presence in the room and he slipped through the open window. However, the person lying splayed on the bed took no notice and continued to snore. He glided over to the side of the bed and his blood boiled at the sight of him.

Once again he thought of the many ways this plan could fail. Once again he thought of the damage that could be done, of the consequences that he would not be receiving. But, he told himself, pushing all else aside, he had all the advantage. The room was too dark; the man's eyes would not become accustomed in time. And he wouldn't let himself be seen.

With a disgusted snarl curling his lip he grabbed the man by his nightshirt. Anger does strange things to people; it gives them strengths they never had before. He grabbed the man by his nightshirt with one iron fist and flung him across the room as if he was a rag doll.

There was a scared, surprised wail and then a sickening crunch as Ingo splattered against the far wall of the room. He slid down the wall limply, brushing against a night table and causing the vase atop it to shatter on the floor. Wilted, crumpled flowers littered the ground and the water in the vase was oozing over the wooden floor. Ingo sat daze, his head reeling, eyes blurred and unfocused, trying to understand what had happened to him.

Before he could process anything at all, he was being lifted again and slammed against the same wall. There was a sharp thud as his nose hit the wall. He winced against the pain, blood seeping out from one nostril and flailed helplessly.

"Take what you want! You can have it all, just leave me alone!" Ingo cried desperately, unable to shake free of the vicious, steel grip that held him against the wall.

With a grunt of hate, he was flung again, his hip cracking against the side of the bed and he yelled in agony. Then there was a shocked, "Oof!" as he was hit by what felt like a train and lifted until his back hit the wall. The air painfully whooshed out of his lungs and he gaped. Paintings clattered to the ground, the frames cracking, the panes of glass shattering.



There was a husky, hate-filled voice by his ear. "It's not yours to give. You sick bastard."

Tears slipped from Ingo's eyes and he as pressed up, face-first, against another wall. His nose was more than broken now and he had to have more than a couple of cracked ribs. There was a brutally strong hand squeezing at his neck and another holding him up by his hips. There was an unnerving tickling sensation, somehow painfully torturous, as hair brushed against Ingo's ear and cheek. However, the face was left unseen, unknown. The thick anger-laden voice spoke once more.

"You are going to give back her land."

Still, despite the painful grip and the shattered bones and the terror, Ingo struggled to speak. "Why should I? AAAAH!"

Ingo was slammed hard against the wall. Blood sputtered out from between his cracked, torn lips.

"You will give this ranch back. And if you ever… ever… touch her again…" The voice had lowered to a whisper, which made it all the more terrifying. "I'll kill you next time."

Ingo's head was slammed once more against the wall and then he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. He looked up, his vision swimming. Standing before him was a tall, shadow covered figure. The figure moved away silently to the door, opened it, and paused before stepping out.

Without turning his head, he called over his shoulder. "I suggest you clean this up before anyone sees." And with that, he was gone.

He was a pretty good distance from the ranch when the little voice spoke beside his ear.

"You wouldn't really kill him…?"

His nostrils flared, his brow twitched, and something dangerous and new flashed behind the electric blue eyes.

"Watch me," Link said.