Page 78 of Marriage of Revenge

Not just want.

But worship.

Each piece of clothing hits the floor like falling curtains, revealing every mark cancer left behind. The scars. The extra weight on my stomach. Thighs fuller than when I danced. Breasts that show more scars, including one for a double port in the middle.

At least my eyebrows grew back. Small victories.

His breathing turns ragged, and in the mirror's harsh light, his own scars seem carved deeper - like we're both mapped by survival.

"Beautiful," he growls, and his lips on my shoulders feel like fire - soft at first, then hungry, open-mouthed, teeth grazing skin until I shiver. His stubble scratches deliciously as he moves lower, marking me with each kiss.

When he spins me around, he fills my whole world - all power and heat and need. But it's his mouth on my scars that undoes me. The way he traces each mark with his tongue, hot and wet and claiming. Gentle yet possessive, like he's trying to taste my survival. His lips brand every inch - sometimes butterfly-soft, sometimes demanding, sometimes just breathing against sensitive skin until I think I might combust. A sigh escapes me even as my pulse performs its own dangerous dance.

He leans closer, his breath scorching paths across my collar bone, and everything in me responds like muscle memory - like my body remembers his touch from before flames rewrote our story. His voice drops to smoke and sin, awakening needs I thought treatment had killed.

Want burns hotter than any fever.

Desire sharper than any needle.

And I'm ready to burn.

"Been dreaming of this," he growls against my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "How you'd feel under my hands." His palms slide hot down my sides, thumbs brushing the curve of my breasts. "Against my mouth." One hand spans my stomach, holding me tight against him while the other traces patterns that make me shiver. "How you'd sound when I taste you."

For one dangerous moment, sincerity bleeds through his armor - like maybe he wants more than revenge. His cock presses hard against my lower back, but it's the tenderness in his touch that undoes me. Heat floods every inch of me, not just desire but recognition. Like he sees past the scars, past the broken places, to something worth wanting.

I melt back against his chest, letting myself pretend this isn't part of his game. His skin burns against mine, all muscle and need. "I used to imagine..." The confession slips out with a gasp as his fingers find sensitive spots. "Your hands on me. Your mouth. Everything." My hips arch back instinctively when his teeth find that spot behind my ear. "Even before... god, Antonio..."

And isn't that just perfect?

Giving the Beast more ammunition.

But with his hands claiming every inch of me, his breath hot on my neck, his desire obvious against my skin - maybe some surrenders are worth the price.

I turn in his arms, and suddenly everything's skin on skin, heat on heat. His chest burns against my breasts, every point of contact sending sparks through me. His mouth claims my neck like he's mapping territory - soft at first, then hungry, open-mouthed kisses that make me arch into him. When he reaches that spot behind my ear, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, electricity dances down my spine straight to my core.

My hands explore his chest without hesitation, learning the landscape of him. Smooth skin and raised scars under my fingers, muscles tensing wherever I touch. His heart pounds against my palm - proof that the Beast feels this too. When my nails scrape lightly across his abdomen, his growl vibrates through both of us.

"Ti desidero più di qualsiasi altra cosa al mondo," he breathes against my throat, and even though I don't speak Italian, the raw hunger in his voice translates perfectly. Want you more than anything in this world. His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer until I feel exactly how much he means it.

Here, trapped between his hard body and the promise of pleasure, every defense I've built crumbles. All the fears about scars and changes and inadequacy dissolve under his touch. There's just this - his skin hot under my exploring fingers, his breath ragged against my neck, the thick length of him pressed against my stomach making promises I desperately want him to keep.

Raw and real and dangerous as hope.

CHAPTER 40—ANTONIO

Holding back is fuckingtorture, but hell, I'd wrestle the stars for her - to watch her shatter beneath me, to make her fall apart until she forgets about revenge and betrayal. Forgets everything but how I make her feel. She's mine to claim, to break, to rebuild in my image.

I should remember the hatred burning in my gut. Should keep the Beast's teeth sharp. But when she shivers like that, all I can think about is marking her skin with my hands, my mouth, my teeth until she's branded as mine.

And when she touches me, I don’t stop her.

"Come." The command comes out like gravel and sin. Need her relaxed, need her willing, need her fucking desperate for what comes next. Christ, she's beautiful - all that steel wrapped in grace, that raw vulnerability she tries to hide. The way she holds herself like she's ready to fight or flee, even as her body betrays her want with every tiny gasp, every unconscious arch into my touch.

I've imagined this more times than I can count - before flames rewrote our story, before scars mapped new territories between us. Back when she used to watch me play piano with those eyes that saw past my walls, past my family name, straight to whatever soul I had left.

Even now, covered in scars neither of us talk about, she draws me like gravity. Maybe because she's the only one who ever really saw me. And fuck if I don't see her too - every mark, every change, every battle written in her flesh. See her and want her more for surviving.

Tonight's a glitch in the damn universe, a moment stolen from whatever hell we're headed toward. And I'm taking everything I can get.

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