Page 36 of Marriage of Revenge

“Careful, Bell’cenda.” His voice drops even lower, dangerous and thick with heat. “They’re watching.”

My breath hitches, the weight of his words sinking in. The camera. Someone could be watching us right now, seeing my hand pinned against him, seeing the way my body melts into his like I’ve forgotten where I am.

“Do you think they can see how desperate you are for me?” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. “How much you need me?”

I try to pull back, instinctively aware of the risk, but his hand on mine doesn’t budge. His grip tightens, keeping me locked in place, pressed against the proof of his desire.

“Ah, ah, no.” His voice is smooth now, mocking, like he’s savoring my reaction. “You nodded, mia cara. You said yes.”

His lips return to my neck, trailing fire along my skin as he speaks between kisses. “Don’t tell me you’re shy now. Not when you’re squeezing me like that, not when you’re letting everyone see how bad you want me.”

I tremble, torn between pulling away and pressing closer. My treacherous body makes the choice for me, leaning into him, my hips shifting slightly against his thigh as the ache in me grows unbearable.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, the dark satisfaction back in his voice. “Let them see. Let them see exactly who you belong to.”

The thought of being watched, of someone knowing how close I am to unraveling, should be humiliating. Instead, it only makes the fire burn hotter.

His teeth graze my ear, his breath hot and heavy. “You like this, don’t you? Knowing they’re watching and you want more, don’t you, mia cara?” His breath is molten against my skin. “You want me to fuck you? Would you be a good girl for my cock, love?”

The words wreck me, stripping me bare in a way I’ve never known, but then—

A flash. Him. Paola. His body driving into hers. His promises to take her even after our wedding. His eyes locking with mine in that damn mirror.

The heat coiling in me twists into something darker, something cruel. I hate it. Hate how my body betrays me, how it responds to him even as my mind rebels.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a mix of threat and temptation. “Sei mia. La mia piccola ballerina. Bell’cenda.”

His hands trace up my thighs, rough palms igniting every nerve in their wake. So close. Too close. But not close enough to where I need him. Butterflies—traitorous, reckless things—dance low in my stomach to the rhythm he’s creating.

His touch makes me forget. Forget the lies. Forget the betrayal. Forget who he is, who I am and what this could cost me.

All I know is the way he makes me feel—alive.

Alive.

And dangerous. And wanted. And…free.

But just as I start to lose myself in him, to question where I end and Antonio begins, the sharp crack of a gunshot slices through the haze.

Reality hits like a slap, cold and brutal, yanking me back from the fire into the icy grip of fear. The fog of desire evaporates instantly, leaving my pulse racing for an entirely different reason.

Before I can process the sound, his body shifts—not away from me like my father used to during treatments, retreating and leaving me exposed, but in front of me. Making sure I’m flushed against the wall, his back against my front. A solid, immovable shield between me and the unknown threat.

His muscles coil tight, every line of his body radiating lethal intent. The heat from his touch is gone, replaced by something colder, sharper—a predator ready to strike.

“What the hell is going on?” he growls, the low, fierce edge of his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

The transition gives me whiplash, my heart slamming against my ribs as the shift from passion to danger unfolds in a heartbeat. One moment he’s consuming me, the next, he’s a force of nature, bristling with a protectiveness so fierce it leaves me reeling.

Because this?

This isn't the Beast who promised to destroy me.

And this isn't the boy who used to stand between me and my father's disappointment, who used to play piano while I danced my hopes and dreams.

This is someone who takes what he wants with the same intensity he once played Chopin—demanding, relentless, consuming. Someone who doesn't treat me like I might break, but like he knows exactly how much pressure to apply before I shatter. Or worse, someone who might be the man I thought he might become: mine.

And that, more than the gunshot, sends a shiver racing down my spine.

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