Page 120 of Hate Mates

Panic claws up my spine, my heart a wild, erratic rhythm in my chest as they drag me away.

Terror drowns me, but I can’t afford it. I can’t let myself feel. Not now. Not when he’s lying there, still and bleeding, a man who’s never needed saving—until now.

So I force myself to breathe, to push the fear down, bury it somewhere deep. “Please,” I whisper, hating the way my voice shakes. “Just… just don’t hurt him anymore.”

Angelo chuckles. “Oh, we won’t. Not if you keep your end of the deal.”

I’m dragged into the empty room Vincenzo and I haven’t decided what to do with yet. There’s nothing but boxes and rolled-up carpets stacked against the wall.

Pain sears my scalp as Angelo yanks my hair, throwing me onto the cold, unforgiving floor.

“Don’t close the door, brother,” Angelo says over his shoulder with a menacing timbre. “If he’s still alive, I want him to hear his wife scream.”

SEVEN

Vincenzo

Pain.

A brutal, searing ache spreads through my skull, my ribs, my fucking everything. My head pounds in time with my heartbeat, the coppery tang of blood thick on my tongue. My eyelids are heavy, crusted with sweat and the dried remnants of whatever they beat out of me, but I force them open.

The room is dim. The house, eerily quiet.

Then I hear it.

A scream.

Ottavia.

The sound is sharp, raw—a sound that doesn’t belong to her, something torn from the depths of suffering. And then I hear him—Dario’s laughter, a sickening, rasping sound, followed by Angelo’s bored drawl.

Something inside me snaps.

I push up too fast, agony exploding through my ribs. My vision tunnels, my body protests, but I don’t fucking care. I stagger, my feet barely catching me as I lurch toward the closest surface to steady myself.

I need a weapon. Something—anything.

My eyes dart wildly through the room until they land on a knife lying near the broken remnants of a chair.

I grip the handle, flexing my fingers around the cool steel. The world narrows to one thing—getting to her.

I shove open the door and bolt down the hall, the pain in my body dissolving beneath the violent rage consuming me. I follow the sounds—Ottavia’s muffled cries, Dario’s sick chuckle.

My stomach curdles. My breath comes in ragged bursts, my grip tightening on the knife until my knuckles go white.

I slam into the door, and the sight guts me.

Dario is on top of her as she thrashes beneath him, her dress bunched up to her waist. Angelo sits in the corner, his cock out, smoking a cigarette, watching with lazy amusement.

My vision blurs red, and my pulse slows to something predatory, something lethal.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I act.

I launch at Dario first. He doesn’t even register me until my knife sinks into the side of his neck. He lets out a choked gasp, his grip on Ottavia loosening as I yank the blade free, sending a hot spray of blood across the room.

His hands fly to his throat, trying to stop the gushing, gurgling mess. He flails, his body writhing, his eyes wide with disbelief, with terror.

Not enough.

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