Page 91 of Marriage of Revenge

Helped create this monster wearing her son's scars.

And now I have to watch him burn away everything she died trying to save.

CHAPTER 47—ANTONIO

"Can you fucking believeher?" The words scrape out of my throat while it takes every ounce of control not to turn for one last look. Takes strength that would make Hercules look weak not to watch her walk away in my shirt, wearing marks I left on her skin.

"What?" Paola's voice hits like nails on glass. Her perfume drowns the room - jasmine and vanilla thick enough to choke on. Should tell her to get out, but what's the point? She's convenient distraction from memories I need to burn - from how Isabella felt under me, how she trusted me, how she still smells like fucking honeysuckle.

A growl tears from my chest.

Because goddamn it - I can't stop wanting that scent.

"Let me help you forget." Her hands slide down my stomach, reaching for what isn't hers anymore. I catch her wrists before she learns that lesson the hard way.

"Don't." The command comes rough as gravel as I put distance between us. She pouts - those lips that used to make me hard, used to have me ordering her to her knees, to suck me dry.

But now?

Now they just remind me of what they're not.

Who they're not.

But I can't. Not when my tongue still tastes Isabella's pleasure. Not when her moans echo in my head, the way she came apart in my arms last night, all trust and surrender. Her honeysuckle scent clings to my skin like a curse I can't wash away.

She's going to fucking destroy me.

"She's gone now." Paola steps closer like she can read my thoughts, like she has any right. "Time for her to pay for everything."

Something primitive roars to life in my chest. My glare pins her in place.

"You don't decide shit about punishment." Ice coats every word. "Isabella pays by my rules. Only mine." Speaking it out loud steadies me. One look at those letters on the bed turns my spine to steel again. So what if she played innocent perfectly? So what if every tear looked real? She's had years to practice her performance.

"Of course." Paola's smile curves like invitation, like she's already imagining me taking her against the wall or in the shower where I claimed Isabella hours ago.

But all I can think about is honeysuckle.

All I can taste is betrayal.

All I want is what I can't have.

Isabella under shower spray haunts me like a fever dream - water sliding down curves I mapped with my tongue, making my cock harder than granite. Paola reads my reaction wrong, slinking closer with hunger painted on her lips.

Maybe I should fuck her. Exorcise Isabella's ghost with someone else's flesh. Drive out honeysuckle with jasmine.

But there's work to do.

Revenge to plan.

Pain to perfect.

"Out." The command comes arctic. Paola knows better than to argue - knows this is just the beginning of what I have planned.

Franco replaces her, reading the room like always. "You were at the piano." His voice carries surprise wrapped in meaning.

"Your point?" But my fingers betray me, finding keys like muscle memory. Another flash hits - Isabella's smile in moonlight, her scars like battle maps, her eyes when she thought we could be more than monsters.

What the fucking hell? I drag a hand over my neck, trying to scrub away thoughts that burn like acid.

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