Page 68 of Marriage of Revenge

In his eyes, I'm not just his wife - I'm a walking reminder of everything that burned. Every loss, every betrayal, every scar carved into his flesh and soul. His vendetta wearing white lace and tulle.

This is the beginning. Our marriage will be built on ruins and revenge, every touch laced with poison, every look carrying the weight of unspoken accusations. The wounds between us run deeper than skin, festering with secrets neither of us is ready to lance.

But something in me refuses to bow. I lift my chin, square my shoulders like I used to before stepping onto stage. My fingers find Naomi's, squeezing tight - her hand in mine feels like the only real thing in this nightmare. I'm done being silent, done letting others write my story. "Every bride deserves a wedding gift, right? Even me." My voice comes out stronger than I feel, steady as a perfectly executed fouetté.

Antonio's eyebrow lifts with dangerous interest while my father lets out a dry chuckle that might be impressed or might be mocking - I've never learned to tell the difference. The church falls silent except for our priest's whimpers, a trembling backdrop to my declaration. "Naomi won't be married to Radomir like my father promised." I meet Antonio's dark gaze, unflinching. "That's my wedding gift."

CHAPTER 35—ANTONIO

"That's my wedding gift."

Her words hang in the gunsmoke-filled air. Bold. Reckless. Like she's still the princess who thinks she can command the Beast. I arch an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch until she starts to fidget.

"Yes." My voice carries enough ice to make her shiver. "Naomi won't go to Radomir. But you didn't ask for what really matters, did you, wife?" I step closer, close enough to catch that damn honeysuckle scent that's going to drive me insane. "You asked for her not to marry him. You didn't ask for her not to get married.”

She sucks in a breath.

“It’s too late now.” And I tug her right by me.

Getting everyone safely to the fortress is a blur of calculated moves and constant vigilance. My men sweep every corner, check every shadow, while Isabella and Naomi huddle together in the center of our defensive formation. The drive back feelslike the longest fucking minutes of my life - expecting bullets through windows, watching rooftops for snipers, counting the cost of today's betrayal in blood and broken trust.

The fury burning inside me isn't cold or icy; it's a blazing inferno. "What the hell just happened?" I snarl, storming back into the mansion after ensuring its security hasn't been breached. It stands unscathed, a small victory in a sea of betrayal. "Who the hell sold us out?"

We're gathered in the grand living room—with the fire crackling and the ocean roaring behind our windows. But those waves are nothing compared with the rage roaring in my veins. My closest team is murmuring about the losses...licking their wounds, talking about revenge, while Isabella and Naomi stand to the side, away from us, a reluctant part of the family.

I slam my fist on the wooden table standing in the middle. "Who?" I repeat, demanding everyone's attention. Through the door to my right, I can hear Doc bandaging Franco in the medical room we set up years ago as people bring the ones who got injured in this room which is bigger.

The fact that my second in command could have died while we stand here discussing betrayal makes my blood boil hotter.

The whispers stop. Only Cerberus dares approach, settling at my feet with those soft brown eyes that somehow survived the fighting pits. My hand finds his head for a moment - one small gesture of gentleness before I turn back to the matter at hand. My glare cuts through the room as I survey what's left of my team. These survivors of our blood-soaked wedding look like hell - bandaged, bruised, but still standing. Still loyal. Unlike the outstanding soldiers we lost today, the day that should have marked my triumph, not another fucking tragedy.

Then my gaze lands on her - my wife. The title tastes bitter even in my thoughts. I bore into her with a look that would make smarter people flinch, but she stands there, chin lifted in thatsame defiance she showed in the church. That boldness might have earned a sliver of respect, but it doesn't erase my suspicion. Could she be part of this plot? Trust and love aren't just foreign concepts in our marriage - they're weapons she never learned to use except to destroy. Just ask my mother.

My eyes catch on her dress - or what's left of it. She'd started tearing at it the moment we rushed for the cars, ripping away layers like they were burning her. When she stumbled during our escape, her feet tangling in torn tulle, every instinct screamed at me to throw her over my shoulder and run. But I couldn't bring myself to touch her.

Not then. Not now.

Yet something primal stirs in my blood at the sight of her - my cock hardening despite every reason it shouldn't. My lips part slightly, imagining taking her right here, using her body to forget this clusterfuck of a day. But then I notice those scars again - one peeking above her breast, another angry and red against her pale skin. Something shifts in my chest, an unwelcome twist that feels too much like concern. Fuck that. I can't afford whatever these holdout feelings are, not with blood spilled and a traitor in our ranks.

"You think I'm involved?" Her voice carries that blend of defiance and hurt that used to get under my skin years ago. "Marrying you wasn't high on my list, but getting people killed is actually lower.”

“Really?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Really. I never ever wanted anyone.” She insists on the word making sure I understand. “Anyone to die. Risking Naomi..." She pulls her friend closer, protective as a mother wolf. "Definitely wouldn't have been my plan."

I step forward, but keep enough distance that her honeysuckle scent can't mess with my head. "And what would have been your plan?" The words come out like venom. "Earning trust and thenshattering it? I know your ways. Your hands are as bloody as everyone else's."

Her breath catches, but that steel in her spine doesn't bend. "Maybe one day you'll realize you were wrong."

"And maybe one day, you'll realize you can't lie anymore."

My men exchange glances, something like respect flickering in their eyes as they watch Isabella. No one talks back to me like this - no one dares. Yet here she stands, matching me blow for verbal blow. In another life, that fire in her would have been irresistible. Now it's just another threat to contain, another flame that could burn everything down.

Naomi pulls herself straighter, her grief momentarily masked by determination. She gives Isabella a small nod - I'm okay, it seems to say, even though we all know she's anything but. "You know she's not responsible for this. We both were..." Her voice catches on the memory of her father's body hitting marble, and something in my chest twists. This pain - watching someone you love die trying to protect you - it's a wound I know too well. Her father might have been my enemy in the end, but at least he died trying to save his daughter. Some fathers actually give a damn. "We both didn't know," she finishes, barely a whisper.

Naomi's ignorance I can believe. Her innocence is written in every tear she's shed.

But Isabella? I study her face for tells, for the smallest sign she's playing us. Instead, she just lets out a soft sigh that carries years of resignation. "If my father orchestrated all of this," her eyes meet mine, steady as a surgeon's hand, "you need to check if Radomir or Henrik was involved."

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