Page 32 of Marriage of Revenge

I could have asked anything. And I asked that.

He laughs. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. Nope. When this man laughs, he sends an earthquake in my stomach because even the sound of it is icy.

“My last wife? She was asking too many questions.” He leans back. "Do you know your mother was supposed to be married to my uncle?" He tilts his head like a vulture eyeing prey. "Your father is playing a dangerous game with alliances... and he should know that your life with me won't be one you'll dance about." His lips curve into something that might be a smile on a human. "Talking about dancing. Show me your twirl."

The lump in my throat expands until I can barely breathe. If I try to do a pirouette and I fall... they'll know. My legs already feellike they're filled with lead, my heart doing that stupid stutter-step that means trouble. And if they know they're bidding on damaged goods, if I mess this up for my father? He won't just be disappointed—he'll be done with me. And everyone he protects will pay the price.

My mouth tastes like metal. But you know what? Screw it. If I'm going down, I'm not going quietly.

So instead, I whisper, "Why don't you twirl?"

His slap is a blaze of cruelty, sudden and searing. The impact snaps my head sideways, and for a second, all I see are stars—the same kind that used to dance in my vision during bad treatment days.

As the sting spreads across my cheek like wildfire, he mutters something in Russian—dark and guttural, each word dripping with promises that make my skin crawl even more than the handprint he's branded onto my face.

"I'll break you," he says in English, like I'm supposed to be grateful for the translation.

"Five minutes are up." The door opens and I don't even have time to taste the blood in my mouth before Henrik strides in.

He takes one look at the probably swollen bruise on my face and smirks. "I see you're getting used to not being the Princess anymore." His eyes narrow as he takes me in, and unlike the Russian, he brings his chair so close I can smell expensive whiskey and something rotten underneath.

I stand up. The clock says four minutes and fifteen seconds left.

He growls. “Playing hard to get? I love the chase, you know.” Maybe if I get him to talk. To say something. Anything.

“You didn’t seem to love the chase at the gala a few years back.” I pause, trying so hard to sound innocent but probably projecting my hatred. “Antonio seemed to have gotten under your skin then. That must be hard for the tournament.”

“What?”

“To feel like he’s going to best you again.”

How is that making him talk? It’s making him angry. What is wrong with me?

He corners me. “The Beast?” He chuckles. “The Beast is a Dead-Man walking. Even though I’d love for him to be there for our wedding. Part of me wonders if I should just take you right after our vows. Like the bitch that you are.”

I can’t help the shiver creeping up my spine, but I continue, “I heard your house is in trouble. You’re losing men left and right.”

I haven’t heard shit, but maybe that will get him to talk more.

He doesn’t. Instead, his hand trails down my arm, fingers catching on my silk dress, and then under my skirt. My skin crawls where he touches me, each inch feeling contaminated. “You heard that? That’s where you come in.” His lips are close. Too close to me. Panic swells inside me—not the familiar flutter of SVT, but something darker, more primal.

I spit on him.

He doesn't hit me. That would be too simple, too merciful. Instead, he grabs my wrist and tugs it toward him, forcing me to wipe my own spit off his face.

Then he kisses me, brutal and invasive, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth like he's claiming territory. He tastes like cigarette and evil, and I gag, bile rising in my throat just like those mornings after treatment.

His laughter is cruel, echoing in my ears like hospital monitors gone wrong. "That mouth of yours needs training. Don't worry—I'll put it to better use than spitting. Make you choke on more than your pride until you learn your place." His fingers dig into my thigh, and I fight the urge to scream. "The only reason I'm not taking you right here is because daddy dearest had a few rules. He says you're pure and have to stay pure for the winner.Shit, I'd have bid 10 million for being the first one to claim you properly."

He leans in close enough that his lips brush my ear. "Every time I want you, you'll be right here, just like this. And you'll have to do everything I say. That pretty mouth will learn to beg, to please, to take whatever I give it. Otherwise?" His hand slides higher, and I squeeze my eyes shut. "I won't just beat you. I'll isolate you. Lock you away until the only voice you hear is mine, until you're grateful for any attention—even this."

His lips trail down my face, and then his teeth sink into my cheek, right where the Russian's handprint still burns. It's more than pain—it's ownership, degradation, a burning reminder of who holds the power here.

The taste of blood is in my mouth, metallic and familiar—like a repeat of my life on loop. My cheeks burn hot with shame and disgust and fear.

I've known helplessness before. I've felt it clutching at my throat when I couldn't lift my own body post-transplant, when nurses had to turn me like a broken doll. I've felt it when sepsis turned my own blood against me, burning through my veins like liquid fire. I've felt it when my heart raced so far out of control they prepped the defibrillator, its ominous presence promising pain in the name of survival.

But this... his mocking gaze, the invasion of his kiss, the claiming bite—it's a whole new level of degradation that cuts deeper than any surgical blade. At least during procedures, I knew the pain had purpose. This? This is just cruelty wearing expensive cologne. His touch makes the traumas of my body seem like mere whispers against the roaring storm of humiliation that is his parting smirk.

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