Page 35 of Marriage of Revenge

But after everything—Henrik’s violations, Christopher’s indifference, my father’s control—I’m tired of being used, of being twisted into something for everyone else’s gain.

This moment, this kiss, it’s going to be mine. Even if it ruins me, even if I’m flirting with the kind of danger that could shatter me, I’ll take it. Because for once, I want to choose, to take something back. I want to feel alive, powerful, and wanted on my terms.

So, I taunt him. "I just think it's funny how you all want to own me, control me, break me—but none of you can even kiss me without making it about power."

His eyes darken, his thumb lingering at the corner of my mouth, and something dangerous flashes there. "Is that what you think?" he murmurs, voice low and rough. "That I'm like them? Like Henrik with his amateur attempts at dominance?” He pauses, gaze dropping back to my lips before finding my eyes. "You think I don't know how to take what's mine?" he growls, his voice a blend of desire and dark promise. "I could ruin you. Make you forget every other touch."

I refuse to back down, straightening my spine, a fire burning inside me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wanting this on my terms. "Really?" The challenge tears from my throat, demanding, not pleading. "Kiss me like youmean it. Show me how different you are from them. Or are you all talk, Maestro?"

His eyes darken, the shadow of something deeper flashing in them. He leans closer, his voice a raw whisper that sends heat pooling low in my belly. "I'm the Beast now, Bell'cenda."

My back is against the wall now and the air between us thickens, every charged second stretching into an eternity.

"Careful what you wish for," he breathes, his voice carrying a promise that sends shivers across my skin.

“What I wish is…”

I can't complete my sentence; within a heartbeat, his lips seize mine in a fervent clash.

This—this is what kissing should be. Not an invasion, but a claiming. Not a punishment, but a promise. Each electrifying touch envelops me in a symphony of forbidden sensations that make my hospital memories feel like someone else's nightmare.

My thoughts? They're gone. Vanished. Vanquished.

The room that I found sterile and cold before is an inferno.

He's claiming me with his tongue, sliding against mine, leading a dance that makes ballet look tame. Not like this. Not this consuming, this desperate, this... right.

His hands are demanding, crafting every response, every shiver that runs down my spine like he's choreographing my surrender. He maps my vulnerabilities with bossy, authoritative precision, but unlike Henrik's touch that made me want to crawl out of my skin, Antonio's makes me want to crawl into his.

My fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the solid muscles beneath his shirt. Too close, not close enough. He groans when I grip him harder, and the sound is raw, feral, dragging another wave of heat through me.

My romance novels didn’t prepare me for this—for how intoxicating it feels to be bad, to relinquish control to someoneso devastatingly sure of himself when I’ve been gripping it for so long.

“You feel that?” His voice is a low growl, roughened with something dark and unrestrained. His lips brush against my ear as his hand presses against the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. “Do you feel what you do to me?”

I can’t speak, my breath stolen by the intensity of him, the way his lips graze that spot beneath my ear that makes my legs threaten to give out. His fingers press into my hip, possessive and firm, while his other hand cups my cheek, tilting my face so his eyes trap mine.

“Maybe you should see for yourself,” he murmurs, the words a low, dark challenge that sends a shiver cascading through me. His lips hover just above mine, teasing, consuming even without contact.

My pulse thunders as his hand slides down, capturing mine. He pauses, the heat of his palm grounding me for a single, electric moment as his gaze holds me in place.

“Well?” His tone is deceptively casual, like we aren’t standing on the edge of something dangerous. Like there aren’t invisible strings pulling me closer to him, binding me to whatever happens next. But the tension between us vibrates, alive and crackling like a live wire about to snap.

I nod. Just barely. It’s a surrender so slight I almost want to take it back.

His chuckle follows instantly—low, rough, and dangerous, a sound that wraps around me like smoke. It’s filled with a dangerous satisfaction that ripples through me. It’s both approval and warning, like I’ve given the right answer—and the wrong one.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the words against my skin, each syllable a spark that ignites something reckless inside me. Before I can process how hearing those words fromhim leaves me craving more, his hand moves mine, guiding it between us.

He presses my palm firmly against the rigid length straining beneath his jeans, and the contact steals my breath.

My fingers curl instinctively, exploring the shape of him through the denim, and my pulse stumbles at the sheer size of him. He’s thick, unyielding, and impossibly hard under my hand.

A sharp hiss escapes him, low and rough, and the sound shoots through me like a live current. His grip tightens on my hand, keeping it there, pressing me against him as if daring me to take it all in.

“Feel that?” he growls, his voice darker now, roughened by something primal. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you look at me, every time you argue with me like you’re not already mine.”

My fingers twitch against him, a mix of instinct and curiosity, and his groan vibrates against my neck. The sound is raw, hungry, and so possessive it feels like a claim.

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