Page 41 of Marriage of Revenge

Yet, I keep watching. Telling myself I’m only making sure there’s no trick coming from her right now.

And her hair. Fuck—it's wet, making it look darker, sticking to her neck like a lover's touch. The image of water droplets trailing down her skin, her fresh from the shower, sends a jolt straight to my thickening cock. It's straining against my pants, demanding attention, remembering how she felt pressed against that wall, the way she melted into our kiss, her hand on me like she wanted to guide me right inside of her tight pussy.

I shift in my chair, jaw clenching as I imagine following those water drops with my tongue, pushing her up against the nearestwall, making her gasp my name instead of fighting back tears from Henrik's marks. My fingers itch with the memory of her hair between them, how she trembled when I pulled her close.

Will she change allegiance? Turn to me like she did in that room, trust me like she used to before everything burned? That would make breaking her even sweeter—watching hope die in those eyes when she realizes it was all a game. Because that's the plan. The only plan.

Even if my body argues otherwise.

This time, she doesn't falter as she walks across the room. Today, there's less of that painted-on mask and a whole lot more steel in her spine. The kind of fire that used to make her dance until her feet bled. And an air of rebellion that makes my blood sing with possibilities I shouldn't want.

But it's those damn scars that halt me. Peeking out just slightly from under her tank top, but enough to stir a storm inside me. When did she get those? What the fuck happened while I was planning my revenge?

A protective fury rises, crashing against the walls of resentment and desire I've built. Those marks weren't there before. Someone hurt her while I was gone, and that right belonged to me.

She locks eyes with me, and hell, it feels like a direct challenge. Not the doe-eyed looks from before, not the fear. Not the desire.

As if she's daring me to figure her out, to see past the scars and steel to whatever secrets she's hiding. Whatever went down between her and that bastard father of hers has changed the game.

Maybe me telling Georgio about her escape had her wings clipped even more.

Then she does something that amplifies that realization. Isabella's chin lifts as she walks past her father, ignoring his outstretched hand and seating herself beside Mrs. Lefevre. Theolder woman's smug grin doesn't escape me, but it's the fire in Isabella's eyes that burns into my skull—a dare, a refusal to be owned by any of us. Yet.

And why does that make me want to flip these tables and rush to her, show her exactly how she could be tamed? Pin her against that wall like yesterday, but this time not stop at a kiss. Make her forget everything but my name, my touch, my claim.

"She's got fire today," Connor murmurs, his Irish lilt thick with amusement. "Like a mare that needs breaking."

“I'll break her soon enough,” Henrik sneers, his voice carrying just far enough, like he wants me to hear. I let a slow smile spread, one that promises nothing but ruin.

“Keep dreaming,” I murmur, fingers itching to make good on the threat.

Radomir's cold laugh joins in. "Children. You think too small. It's not about breaking—it's about owning."

I need to concentrate on the tournament that's about to begin. And not. Definitely not on how I could grab her hand, drag her back to that room where I kissed her yesterday and pleasure her against the wall until all she knows is my name. Until those scars are covered with my marks instead. Until she forgets every other man who dared to touch her.

Her father stands up—and it may seem to others he's unbothered, but I notice him wincing. The man is pissed. His little ballerina just performed her first act of rebellion in public, and he can't do a damn thing about it.

"It's 5:30 a.m. No need for a speech. Know your every move is watched. We won't tolerate another misstep. Begin."

The threat in his voice would make lesser men tremble. But all I can think about is Isabella's defiant stance and how fucking beautiful she'll look when she finally realizes who really owns her.

Soon.

CHAPTER 20—ISABELLA

Fingers fly across keyboardslike dancers across a stage, but this isn't the ballet I know. The air crackles with tension, thick enough to choke on.

Connor hunches over his laptop, all traces of Irish charm gone. His phone buzzes every thirty seconds—precise, mechanical. His crew works in sync, passing tablets back and forth like they're trading state secrets. Maybe they are.

"Get me that fucking backdoor now," Radomir snarls into his headset, his accent thicker with rage. One of his men flinches, fingers trembling as he types. Papers scatter across their table like fallen leaves, covered in strings of code I can't decipher.

Henrik's setup looks like mission control—three screens, two phones, and a tablet displaying what looks like blueprints of Diamonds Inc. His crew moves like a well-oiled machine, but there's fear in their efficiency. The bruises on one man's wrist tell stories of what failure costs.

The new French competitor commands his space like he's center stage at the Paris Opera, every movement precise and calculated. His fingers dance across his keyboard in perfect rhythm, his eyes never leaving the screen. Even Mrs. Lefevre leans forward, watching his performance with the kind of intensity I recognize from old ballet masters.

Mrs. Lefevre's gaze prickles against my skin like pre-surgery prep. She's caught me watching, caught me analyzing. When our eyes meet, her lips curve knowingly, like she sees right through my carefully constructed walls. My fingers find that familiar path—up my throat, down to the constellation of scars inches below my collarbone. The marks of survival that makeup can't hide, that this borrowed courage can't erase.

Whispers swarm around me like hospital monitors beeping warnings, but I can't focus on them. Not when Antonio commands attention like gravity demands falling. My heart performs its own dangerous choreography, a rhythm my doctors would definitely disapprove of.

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