Page 59 of Marriage of Revenge

Kill Antonio or condemn Naomi?

The choice sits in my chest like poison, like the venom they used on Antonio. Only this time, there's no antidote. No miracle doctor to save us.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

CHAPTER 29—ANTONIO

"She saved you." Francosits beside my bed, confusion etched deep as my scars. Like Isabella's some puzzle he can't solve.

Join the fucking club.

Problem is, I know too much. Every battle between revenge and want tears at me like Henrik's blade, like old burns reopening. The closer she gets, the more these warring needs try to rip me apart. Vengeance sits cold in my gut while the memory of her kiss burns hotter than fever.

Shadows crawl across stone walls that have witnessed centuries of betrayal. Doc's heart monitor beeps steady as a metronome, marking time like a countdown to something I can't name. The mansion hums with life beyond these walls, while death still lingers in my veins.

Moving feels like being carved open again. Sweat slicks my skin, every shift sending fire through muscle and bone. Mythroat's raw as that night I breathed smoke and screams, each word scraping like broken glass.

"Must be an angle," I manage, voice rough as gravel. "She's playing her own game."

But the taste of her still haunts my tongue, sweet as poison, deadly as hope.

Franco's concern leaks through his usual stone facade as he reaches for the glass. "Doc says this'll help the fever." His gruffness doesn't hide the worry - the kind that comes from watching your leader almost die.

The water hits my raw throat, bitter medicine riding underneath. Better than the liquid fire that was burning through my veins earlier. I drain it, letting cool relief chase away the taste of death.

Fever dreams still cling like smoke - Isabella in that vampire's castle, but it wasn't some ancient noble claiming her. It was me, the Beast, finally taking what's mine. Her skin under my hands, her moans echoing off stone walls, her body yielding to every dark need I've buried since flames remade me. Those dream-kisses tasted like power and surrender, like everything I want to take from her. The way she arched into me, begging for more, offering everything...

But the fantasy twisted, burned away like my face did that day. Mother's screams replaced Isabella's moans. Blood replaced honeysuckle. Reality crashed back with all its sharp edges and bitter truths. The reminder of why Isabella has to pay, why soft skin and sweet surrender can't erase what she helped destroy.

My throat feels like I've swallowed broken glass and gasoline.

Franco's voice cuts through the haze - he's been talking, waiting for response. I force myself back to now, to survival instead of memory.

"Without Paola bringing that warning, you'd be gone." His words drop soft as assassination orders. "Dead."

I meet his eyes through another round of chest-splitting coughs. "We planned for that." The words tear out like confessions. Like the truth they are.

Because the Beast always has contingencies.

Always has backup plans.

Always survives.

Even if survival tastes like betrayal and honeysuckle.

"Not a plan I want to see happen," Franco mutters, his gaze sliding away like he's seeing futures he'd rather forget. "Intel coming soon?"

"Should be." Steel threads through my voice despite the poison still burning in my veins.

Never again. I won't be caught off guard like some amateur who thought he had all the angles covered. I planned for sabotaged brakes, planned for Forever Diamond to crush Moretti's empire into dust. But Henrik's poisoned blade? That was sloppy. That was me getting cocky, thinking I had death trained to heel like a loyal dog.

The Beast doesn't make the same mistake twice.

Paola's entrance carries that mix of concern and ownership that sets my teeth on edge. Like saving my life gives her rights she hasn't earned. But it wasn't her - it was Isabella. The irony tastes like copper in my mouth. She did it for Naomi, not me, but that warning could get her killed if Moretti connects the dots.

Not that I'll give him the chance. This wedding needs to happen, but it won't be the fairy tale she used to whisper about during piano practice. This marriage will be forged in vengeance, tempered by every scar her father carved into my flesh, every scream that still echoes in my dreams.

Paola perches on my bed like she belongs there, her eyes trailing over bandages with manufactured tenderness. When she leans in for a kiss, I stop her - gentle but firm. Because her touch is wrong now, empty as promises. Every time she gets close,Isabella's face haunts me like smoke, like honeysuckle perfume I can't wash away. This hunger clawing at my insides? It's not for Paola. It's for the girl who watched me burn, who's about to learn exactly what that fire created.

---