Page 33 of Marriage of Revenge

"I'll see you soon, Isabella," he vows, and my skin tries to crawl right off my bones. His words paint a vivid picture of my ruined dignity, of all the ways he'll use that mouth he violated. And inthis moment, I feel more exposed than in any hospital gown, more violated than during any invasive exam.

Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I survived cancer trying to eat me alive. I survived my heart trying to dance without rhythm. I survived guilt that’s been rotting me from the inside out.

I won't let this man's touch break me.

Two more men to go, and then Antonio will be in front of me. I won't lose it now. I won't lose it then.

I've already danced with death in more ways than one—these men don't know what kind of survivor they're dealing with.

CHAPTER 16—ISABELLA

Idon't have timeto inhale and exhale, to reset my mask of indifference. My cheek still throbs from Henrik's bite, a reminder that I'm just property being inspected.

Connor—the Irish mafioso—enters the room. He's slightly shorter than Antonio, but still towering over me, all controlled power where Antonio is lethal grace.

Yesterday he was all laughter and inappropriate jokes, but today there's a storm in his eyes that makes me tense. Naomi met him once—she made him laugh. He’s not laughing now.

He frowns when he sees the marks on my face, something dark passing over his features.

"Whoever did those things are children,” he grunts before pulling the chair and sitting in front of me. Then, instead of pawing at me or threatening to break me, he spends five minutes on his phone. Completely ignoring me. Like I'm not even worth his time.

I drink some water, studying him while trying not to be obvious about it. His gruff is turning into a beard and he doesn't sound mean on the phone—until his voice turns to ice: "Find her. And when you find her, don't touch her—wait for me."

My hand tightens around the water glass. I'm not the only one trying to escape this gilded cage, am I? Some other woman is running, fighting, probably terrified.

I'm tempted to say something, to ask who she is, if she needs help. But honestly? Not doing small-talk or whatever their version of small-talk is (Threats? Promises of violence? Discussion of human trafficking routes?) feels like the first moment I can actually breathe since Henrik left.

"Five minutes are up." The door opens and Connor leaves without another glance at me or another word.

Christopher—the French mafioso—strides in next, and any relief I felt evaporates. But instead of threats or violence, he comes closer and whispers words I never expected: "I don't want this." His French accent is strong. Maybe I misunderstood him.

"I'm sorry, what?" My voice comes out hoarse, like I've been screaming. Maybe I have been, on the inside.

Because it never occurred to me that I'm not the only one who doesn't want this. That someone else might be as trapped as I am, just in a different kind of cage.

"I don't want this," he repeats. "You. I don't want you." But there's hatred in his gaze like this entire ordeal is my fault, like I personally orchestrated this nightmare while I was busy trying not to die from chemo. "I don't want to fucking die competing for a hand that doesn't even deserve me."

I don’t deserve him?

Ha.

Of course, it’s about him. What he wants.

And anger swells within me—the kind that used to make my heart monitor scream, the kind that got me through endlessnights of nausea and pain. Because they all think about themselves. Even in their refusal, it's about them.

They don't see howIdon't want any of this, how my body's already been through enough battles without adding their war. "But you have to listen to Mommy dearest?" I ask, tilting my head, letting some sass slip into my voice.

He groans, and for a moment I see something almost human flash across his face. "You should know better than anyone that family can be problematic." His tone isn't as vicious as the others. More indifferent. Like he's already planned his ending and is waiting for the curtain to fall.

My mind reels. Him and Connor may be the least of all evils out there. The devil you know versus the devil who might just want to watch everything burn.

Until Christopher leans forward, and something shifts in his expression. "Let's just say Mommy Dearest has it coming."

And there's a glint in his eyes that chills me. It's not the obvious menace of Henrik or the cold calculation of the Russian.

It's something deeper, darker—the kind of hatred that doesn't need to touch you to destroy everything you love. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"And if I win? Let's just say you'll know your place. You're either an asset or... you're not." His French accent thickens like poison in a wound, and then he laughs. The sound is a bizarre mix between a hiccup and a vampire's cackle—so out of place I don't know whether to smile or wince. Like watching someone pirouette into a wall.

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