Page 34 of Marriage of Revenge

He stands up before the door opens again. And my heart? My heart is somewhere on the floor, probably hiding under a chair, because I know who's coming next.

Antonio.

And after that dance... pressed against him, dizzy from his scent and memories and those words that are brandedsomewhere between my nerve endings and my common sense, I'm not sure what to expect. Will he be the monster who promised to destroy me, or the man who held me like I might shatter? Or worse—the one I watched with Paola, proving exactly how little our marriage will mean?

The door swings open, and he strides in, stealing every ounce of air from the room. Because that oxygen? It's definitely not in my lungs. My treacherous body forgets about Rodomir’s slap, Henrik's bite, about Christopher's threats, about everything except the way Antonio moves—all lethal grace and barely contained power.

He's a vision of forbidden temptation, those jeans molding to his muscular thighs like they're painted on, that tight black shirt stretched across his chest, hinting at every sinew, every ripple. He's even more dangerous than yesterday in his crisp buttoned-down shirt. Or maybe he's equally dangerous and my brain is finding new ways to torture me.

Why am I even ranking his outfits? He's not getting any awards, especially not from me. The "Most Likely to Make Me Question My Sanity" trophy isn't a thing, even if he'd win it hands down.

I can't get lost in his dark gaze. And if I stare at his scars, his fury won't simmer, it'll explode. But those tattoos on his powerful arms, they're pieces of art, forcing my eyes to linger. Each one probably tells a story of violence I don't want to know.

I need space. So, I stand up but still can't look away. Like a ballet where I've forgotten all the steps but can't stop dancing.

I want to ask him so many questions. I want to ask him if he remembers those moments we spent together laughing and toying with a line we didn't even realize existed. I want to ask him if revenge is really all he's here for... when he marches toward me with a scowl on his face that has me flinching.

I want to ask him if there’s a tiny part of him that could forgive me.

"Who did this to you?" His whisper is a threat wrapped in a deep growl. His fingers linger on my bruise and the bite mark, leaving a trail I don't want to analyze on my skin. "Isabella. Who. Touched. You?"

The gentleness in his touch makes something inside me snap. Because how dare he act like he cares? How dare he play protector when hours ago he was promising to destroy me?

"Does it even matter?" I laugh, and it sounds hysteric even to my ears. "The Russian slapped me because I wouldn't dance for him like a puppet. Henrik—" My voice breaks, and Antonio goes still. Deadly still. "Henrik decided my mouth needed training. That he'd teach me to use it for better things than spitting at him. Oh, and he bit me, marked me, promised to make me choke on—"

I can't finish. Can't say the words. Can't admit how violated I felt, how helpless. How different it was from medical procedures because at least those were meant to save me.

"He kissed you." It's not a question. Antonio's voice has gone arctic, his fingers still gentle on my face but his eyes promising violence.

“I mean… if you can call that a kiss, yes. Oh, and he bit me. Or did you miss that part?”

"He put his hands on you."

"Well, his teeth, really." The words come out light, almost flippant. A perfect performance. See how far I've come from that scared ballerina? Look how well I can dance around trauma now.

I refuse to break down in tears. Not in front of him. Not when his rage is already a living thing between us, waiting to feed on any weakness I show.

The sound he makes isn't human. His fingers slide to my cheek, right where Henrik's teeth broke skin, and his touch is so gentle it burns.

"I'm going to make him swallow every single one of his teeth," he says softly. Like he's making me a promise. Like he's telling me a bedtime story. "And that's just the beginning."

"What do you care?" The words burst out of me like they've been waiting to escape. "You're all the same. Predators seeking the same prey. You don't care about who hurt me. You just want to be the only one who gets to break me. The only one who—"

"Careful, piccola." His fingers trail from my bruised cheek down to my throat, gentle but claiming. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his eyes darken. "You have no idea what I want to do to you."

"Don't I?" My laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. "I saw exactly what you want to do. With Paola. Against that wall. Or did you forget about your little show?"

His grip tightens slightly, just enough to make my pulse jump. "Jealous, Bell'cenda?" The nickname is a whisper from the past, from all those afternoons he watched me practice dance—how he used to tease me for building up intensity in every movement until it nearly broke me.

"You wish." But my voice betrays me, coming out breathless instead of bitter.

He’s looking at my lips, really looking, like he’s considering every inch, every word I’ve said, before his eyes lift back to mine. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, rough and calloused, but somehow soft enough to make my breath hitch. It’s a maddeningly gentle touch, the kind that could turn possessive at any second.

And for a split second, I’m not standing here in this nightmare—I’m sixteen again, catching my breath from dancing for him,leaning over the piano as he kissed me for the first time. His lips had started almost soft, teasing, until my hands clutched his shoulders, and he deepened the kiss, showing me just how much he wanted me. The intensity had left me breathless, my heart pounding with a mix of innocence and longing.

But that was then.

Now, his touch is nothing like that kiss. Now, it’s heat and danger, a whispered threat wrapped in desire. God, I hate how easily he makes me feel, makes me want.

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