Page 61 of Pure Vengeance

“Fine.” She toyed with her empty glass. “What did my father do to you?”

It shouldn’t have surprised me that she suspected the reason behind our marriage. “Twelve years ago, he paid to have my older brother murdered when he signed a contract to buy a piece of property your father wanted. Jerome’s son, Ben, died as well.”

She winced and her hand moved across the table toward mine, but she pulled back before touching me. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity. I?—”

“Stop right there,” she interrupted. “I’m sorry he did that, and I’m sorry for your loss, but don’t you dare attribute me with an emotion I’m incapable of feeling for you.”

I didn’t know why her words made me so angry. I didn’t want or need her pity, and I certainly deserved her animosity. My hands clenched, but I forced myself to remain still instead of taking my belt to her ass.

After all, I’d wanted her to speak.

“Fair enough. How do you feel about your father being dead?”

“Relieved.” She rose to her feet and went to the sideboard, then returned with a bottle of my best scotch. After breaking the seal, she poured a few fingers into her wineglass and sipped it. “Also, sad, but not for him.”

I resisted the urge to rub my hands together. Although it was probably the booze, I’d managed to relax her enough to start giving me the information I truly wanted.

By all accounts, Natasha was a devoted daughter and her father doted on her. I needed to know why she hadn’t shed a tear over his death, and why Steve had talked about her as if she was something he scraped off his shoe.

“Why are you sad?”

“Tabled for later.”

Her retort came too quickly, and I decided not to push—at least for now.

“Okay. Why didn’t you go to college?”

“Also tabled for later.”

“All right.” I studied her for a moment, then said, “It must be hard to lose your father, especially so violently.”

“Nope.” She scowled at the scotch in her glass, then went to the wet bar for water. After adding a few drops to her scotch, she said, “It was easy as pie, and very satisfying to watch.”

I poured scotch into my glass but didn’t drink. Instead, I asked, “Where did the bruises come from, Natasha?”

“Which ones?”

“The ones you had on our wedding day.”

She snorted and laughed bitterly. “As if you don’t know.”

“I don’t. Answer the question, please.”

“Huh. That explains why you kept asking.” Her brow wrinkled into a frown. “You’re apparently too slow on the uptake to figure it out, but my father beat the shit out of me when I refused to marry you.”

Fucking bastard.

I should have known—especially after Steve tried to kick her in the face. Before I could think up a reply, she said, “Look. I’ll give you all the truths you want, but I truly don’t care about yours unless they involve you letting me go.”

“Natasha—”

She ignored the warning in my tone. “I got accepted to Stanford to study biochemistry. Dear old Dad found my acceptance letter and broke three of my ribs, then beat me again after I got out of the hospital.”

“Jesus.”

“You’re so cute when you think a leash and public humiliation is going to break me.” She laughed and rolled her eyes. “When I was six, I had a kitten. She was just a little stray that found her way onto the property. I called her Floof because she was light gray like a dust bunny. My father eviscerated her in front of me and laid her on my breakfast plate the morning after my teacher reported the whip marks he’d left on my legs. He said it was all my fault because my uniform skirt wasn’t long enough to cover them.”

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