Page 51 of Marriage of Revenge

He's a tad shorter and nowhere near as strong. But the real advantage I have isn't just physical—it's psychological. Henrik's like a bull charging blindly, not realizing he's up against a matador.

Each hit lands with brutal precision, the sound of flesh meeting flesh like music.

As he stumbles to the right, seemingly in retreat, I advance—but it's a trap.

He draws something from his waistband, his eyes gleaming with triumph and malice.

Pain explodes through me, a blinding, white-hot lance. Blood, warm and slick, coats my side where the blade must have come perilously close to vital organs. Panic is a distant sensation, drowned out by the rush of adrenaline. With a grunt, I rip the knife free and hurl it away, hearing Franco's voice shouting for a halt to the madness.

But I'm not done, not by a long shot. The world may be swaying—or perhaps it's just me—but my resolve is ironclad. I will not be brought down, not here, not now. I clench my jaw, my fists, my entire body.

My vision blurs at the edges, the world tilting like that night everything burned. But I'm still standing. Still breathing. And Henrik? He's about to learn why they call me the Beast. After all, doesn’t Henrik know that wounded beasts are the most dangerous of all? Never wound what you can’t kill.

A scream cuts through the bloodlust - Isabella's voice, sharp as a blade. The sound hits somewhere deep, somewhere I thought I'd burned away. Can't tell if it's fear or anticipation threading through her cry, and that uncertainty claws at my focus. Fucking weakness, letting her voice affect me even now.

The crowd's energy pulses like a living thing, hungry for violence. Their cheers taste like copper in the air, mixing with my blood. Henrik's still wearing that shit-eating grin, chest heaving as he savors his cheap shot.

"Thought you'd be more cautious," he pants, victory making him stupid. "Rules are for the weak. Remember?"

Ice slides through my veins, familiar as revenge. This close, I can smell his expensive cologne mixing with fear-sweat. He doesn't understand what real survival looks like - what it means to crawl out of flames with your skin melting off, to rebuild yourself from ashes.

My fist connects with surgical precision, the impact jarring up my arm. Each hit carries years of stored violence, finally finding its target. The way his bones give under my knuckles feels like justice.

Movement catches my eye - Isabella, stumbling toward the ring like a moth to flame. There's something raw in her face, something that looks too much like concern as she eyes the blood soaking my side. That look shouldn't twist in my gut like itdoes. Shouldn't make me want to grab her, shake her, demand if she really cares or if this is just another performance.

"Still standing," I growl, letting Henrik see the monster he's awakened. My fists paint his face red, each strike methodical, precise. When he drops, it's not with a bang but a whimper - pathetic as his attempt to kill me.

They drag him away before I can finish it, his body limp as a ragdoll. Isabella's father watches from his throne, fury carved into every line of his face. I know that look - the one that says his perfect plan just went to shit. Same look he wore when he carved my face, when he realized flames couldn't kill what he created.

Isabella's closer now, her honeysuckle scent cutting through blood and sweat. My hand finds her chin, fingers leaving red marks on porcelain skin. When I kiss her, it's not gentle - nothing about us will ever be gentle again. She makes this sound against my mouth, half-whimper, half-need, and something primal roars to life inside me.

My tongue claims hers like I'm going to claim everything else - brutal, possessive, a warning wrapped in desire. She yields too easily, body softening against mine, and that's how I know it's another lie. Another performance by daddy's perfect ballerina.

This kiss tastes like victory and vengeance, like blood and promises I intend to keep. Because now she's mine.

And I'm going to make her regret every second of it.

CHAPTER 25—ISABELLA

My father drags meaway as I keep on replaying that kiss in my mind. It was chemo burning through my veins, destroying and rebuilding me with each heartbeat. When my body melted against his, it wasn’t graceful like my old arabesques – it was desperate, messy, real.

He pushes me into the room, pacing around.

My father's rage left physical evidence - crescent moons carved into my arms. The bruises will bloom like ballet roses, joining the constellation of scars that map my survival. And Antonio’s voice keeps on playing in my mind: "I'll see you at the altar, my Bell'cenda."

The altar.

I'm marrying the Beast.

And the worst part? My heart doesn't know whether to race with fear or anticipation. Even my body betrays me - remembering his touch, his taste, the way "Bell'cenda" fell from his lips like a dark prophecy of what's to come.

But this isn't a dark romance novel I can close when it gets too intense. This is my life, and Antonio isn't here to rescue the princess.

He's here to make his Bell'cenda burn.

"Don't fucking think this is the end," my father spits, and I recognize this rage - it's the same cold fury that filled his eyes when doctors said I might never dance again. His plans have backfired spectacularly, with too many predatory gazes watching his downfall. They're not just waiting to take his throne; they're vultures circling their next meal, counting his heartbeats until they can feast on his empire's corpse.

His pacing intensifies. Each step echoes like hospital monitors counting down bad news as he barks into his phone at Naomi's father. "Don't tell me what to do!" The words explode from him, sharp as surgical steel. "Your daughter will be married off as well—she has a role to fulfill."

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