Page 57 of Marriage of Revenge

"Told you, little ballerina. He won't be gracing us tonight."

I lean closer, swallowing bile and pride. "You certainly reminded him there are no rules in the ring." My voice drops to a whisper meant to seduce. "I've hated him for so long." The lie tastes like copper on my tongue. Across the table, Connor drowns himself in beer like he's trying to wash away the taste of betrayal.

"Antonio keeps his word." Connor's declaration carries more weight than his drunken slouch suggests. He raises his glass in a mocking toast to my father. "But this? This shouldn't surprise me. Survival means shedding your skin, and you're the deadliest snake in the pit."

Silence drops like a curtain before final bow.

Henrik's hand finds my thigh, heavy as death and twice as unwelcome. Every inch of my skin crawls where he touches me, but I force myself to stay still, to play my part in this twisted performance. His smirk says he thinks he's winning, thinks he's claiming. My pulse races like it does before SVT kicks in, but this isn't my heart betraying me - it's pure, distilled disgust.

My father's laugh hits like winter wind, bouncing off gold-leafed walls with calculated cruelty. "Seems you're refusing my family's embrace, Connor." His words spin like a spider weaving threats into silk. "Such a shame. We offer such... protection."The predator's smile he wears makes my skin prickle with remembered fears.

"Protection?" Connor stands, chair scraping marble like nails on a coffin. "Like burning half a man's face and murdering his mother? This auction had rules. I'd rather lose business—"

“Murdering his mother?” I lift my chin, my voice shaking.

I knew he beat her up. He told me she ran. Disappeared. That she agreed to never reappear or he’d kill Antonio. He said her blood was on my hands as he showed me his own hand, marred with red. Her blood. When he broke her nose. Broke her jaw. Broke her.

But she’s not dead.

She can’t be dead.

"Oh, please. Let’s not talk about a past that means nothing. You’d rather lose more men?" My father's eyebrow arches with deadly precision. "Than lose her?"

Something raw flashes across Connor's face. "She was never mine." The words carry weight I don't understand, but they taste like truth and tragedy.

"Irish." My father dismisses centuries of pain with a wave. "Always drowning in sentiment." Radomir's laughter sounds like bones breaking.

Naomi bolts up like she's been shocked. "Bathroom," she manages before fleeing. Radomir watches her go, licking soup from his spoon with obscene satisfaction. The butternut squash doesn’t taste like anything, even knowing lobster ravioli in champagne cream comes next has my stomach in knots - another course in this feast of fears.

I should follow her, but Henrik's question anchors me here: "Those scars - where'd they come from?" His words slur slightly, hand finally retreating from my thigh. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's whatever they gave him for the beating Antonio delivered. Either way, it's an opening.

"Life," I say, letting my smile carry secrets. "Death." I pause for effect. "More life." Each word a truth wrapped in mystery, a performance for a man too drunk to see the steel beneath silk.

"Cryptic." He leans closer, and I don't flinch.

"You want cryptic?" I watch my father's animated discussion with Radomir about peace between territories, about truces written in blood and broken promises.

"Was?" Henrik's smile shifts as German slips from his whiskey-loose tongue.

"Was du nicht sagst," I murmur. What you don't say. The words feel like betrayal on my tongue, but I've learned to swallow worse things.

His smile cracks open, almost real. "You speak German?"

"Ein bisschen." Just enough.

His hand returns to my thigh, heavy as guilt and twice as unwanted. I slide another beer his way, watching his control slip like blood through fingers. "You seem awfully confident about my stepbrother's... delay." The words taste like acid, but I force them out sweet as honey while my father's conversation with Radomir dies down.

"Let's just say snakes..." He leans closer, alcohol and victory making him careless. "...are deadly."

Then his mouth is on mine - clumsy, invasive, tasting of beer and triumph. Everything in me screams to bite, to run, to vomit. Instead, I kiss him back, thinking of Naomi, of Antonio, of everything at stake. My reward comes whispered against my lips: "Blade and poison. Always works."

His tongue invades again, sloppy and demanding. I don't pull away despite every cell in my body begging for escape. Let him think the beer made him loose-tongued. Let him forget he gave away his game.

My father clears his throat and I jerk back like a guilty teenager - the perfect performance for a girl trying to rebel.

But inside? Inside I'm cataloging every word, every slip.Blade and poison. Always works.

"Henrik." My father's voice cracks like a whip. "Control yourself."

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