Page 20 of Hunted Vengeance

Interesting. No doubt, Adriano is using off-the-books doctors with all his shit, including whatever Colette needs. That shouldn’t surprise me. It really fucking shouldn’t. That’s just the tip of the shit sandwich that is Adriano Bellucci.

“Maybe I should go with you to New York,” Boden mutters.

Part of me wants to tell him no. The other part wants me to beg him to come along. It’s not that I can’t do this on my own, especially since I’m not sure whatthisis going to entail, but my pride won’t ask him.

“I’m going with you,” he states. “We leave first thing in the morning.”

I’m not sure what it is, but I feel a sense of relief at his words—at his demand. “Okay,” I agree.

I think I need him to go with me. I need someone at my back. Admitting that, even to myself, makes me feel like a fucking pussy. Leaving Boden’s office with the promise to see him in the morning, I head home.

I need a long night of drinking alone before I embark on whatever the fuck I’m about to embark on.

Chapter Eight

COLETTE

Merrick’s handslides up the outside of my thigh to my hip before it curls around and cups me between my thighs. Arching my back, I press my ass against his hips and moan at the sensation of his length between my ass cheeks.

Two fingers slip inside of me before he curls them and presses his palm against my clit. Turning my head, I open my eyes and look over my shoulder. The sensation of Merrick’s fingers inside of me disappears, and I realize I’m alone.

Rolling onto my back, I let out a heavy sigh and stare at the ceiling. Blinking, I sigh as I pinch my eyes closed. My mind drifts back to last week at my engagement party, and a tear slides down my temple.

I was auctioned off like an animal to be used on my wedding night by a complete stranger—one million dollars to use my body. Maybe I should be flattered by the amount, but I’m not. I held back the tears, but just barely. And now that I’ve been home, I haven’t been able to stop crying.

My father has offered me not a single word or explanation. I shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that he watched that downright embarrassing scene and not only did nothing but said nothing as well. He watched, with a smirk on his lips, as my future husband promised to whore me out.

I don’t understand what the hell is going on. How could this be my life? Pinching my eyes closed, I try to keep from crying all over again. I am tired of feeling this way, of crying, of everything that is my life.

I’m sick of standing by and watching everything happen around me—and to me. Day in and day out, some new trauma is announced, especially recently, and every time I think I can possibly dig myself out of it, something even worse happens.

Rolling to my side, I slip my hands beneath my cheek as I stare at my closet doors. Everything that is hanging behind those doors is for a stranger. They are not for the woman I am inside. They are for this creature my father has cultivated, a fictitious thing that doesn’t exist outside of this bubble.

I don’t fall back asleep. Instead, I continue to stare at the closet doors and wonder what the next few weeks will be like leading up to the wedding and then the wedding night. My body has already been auctioned off, and I don’t understand why.

Why would this man have agreed to marry me, no doubt paying or owing my father something, just to turn around and sell me to another? And that entire room of people practically salivated over it—men and women.

What kind of people is my father associated with?

When the sun begins to rise, I decide it’s time for me to do the same. I don’t have much on my schedule today, but that doesn’t mean I can laze all day long. I have no doubt there will be something I need to accomplish for this sham of a wedding.

Once I’m showered and dressed, I make sure to apply a little more makeup than usual. That’s what I’ve been doing lately. Somehow, it makes me feel slightly more hidden from the world. I know it’s a false sense of security, but it’s all I have right now.

Glancing at my reflection, I snort at the sight. I look horrible. Overly made up, dressed too over the top for lounging around the house, but at the same time… My armor protects me. At least it does inside my own head.

Reaching for my doorknob, I gently twist it. I’m not a prisoner of my bedroom. I can come out any time I want and go wherever I want inside the house. I just prefer to stay in my own solitude, and the only place that’s guaranteed to be quiet is my bedroom.

The house seems still, almost stagnant, as I walk down the hallway. Marcello isn’t waiting for me outside of my bedroom door, which surprises me. It seems as if he’s been right behind me every single minute of every single day lately.

Moving through the house and toward the kitchen, I’m relieved to find everything empty. But then I pause, wondering how it could be so empty. My father’s men are always around, lurking around every corner, and they are nowhere to be heard or seen.

That makes me wonder if something big is happening.

Reaching for the handle of the refrigerator, I curl my fingers around it as I gently tug it open. A bottle of ketchup makes a rattling sound, and I glance around from left to right to see if anyone comes around the corner to find the source of the noise, but there is nothing.

Focusing back on the contents of the fridge, I smile at the sight of a Greek yogurt that greets me. I reach for the container, then grab a bowl of berries and some granola from the pantry before I make myself a little yogurt parfait.

Picking up my bowl and spoon, I think about walking into the breakfast room to sit down at the table to eat, but I decide against it. Instead, I stand at the kitchen counter before I close my eyes and welcome the complete silence.

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