Page 137 of The Colour of Revenge
“He’s hurt you,” I note. It’s not a question. My voice low and full of barely restrained fury.
A sob escapes her lips, and I’m pulling her back into my arms before she can crumble.
“I’m getting you out of here,” I vow, my voice fierce against her ear. “Just hold on a little longer.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she whispers, her voice breaking on the last word.
I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“You can.”
“How do you know?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“Because you’re you,” I say firmly. “Carina. My queen. The woman who survived years of hell and still came out stronger. The woman who turned her pain into vengeance so damn sexy it caught the attention of Nate Blackwell—the murder extraordinaire himself.”
Her lips twitch. A real laugh slips out. Small, but fucking real.
It feels like a victory.
“You’re right,” she says, her voice steadier now. “I’ve been through worse.”
“That’s… not exactly what I meant, but yeah, you get the idea.” I grin. “You’re a badass, Princess. And you’re mine. No matter what anyone says.”
“I love you so much, Nate,” she confesses, her voice soft but full of conviction.
The words hit like a bullet to the chest.
“I love you too, Princess,” I whisper, leaning down. “We’re going to circle back to this bombshell at a later date,” I try to joke.
She laughs again, but it’s laced with something else this time.
When our lips meet, it’s not soft or sweet—it’s desperate, consuming, like we’re trying to pour all the things we can’t say into that one moment.
The backs of her legs hit the counter, and I seize the moment, lifting her effortlessly to sit on it without breaking our kiss. My hands glide over her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, and she moans softly into my mouth—a sound that sends a bolt of need straight through me.
"God, I’ve missed you so fucking much," I groan, my lips brushing against hers as the words spill out.
"Nate…" she breathes, her voice a delicate whimper that shoots straight to my dick.
"I’m trying—really fucking hard—not to take you right here on this damn counter," I murmur, my forehead pressing against hers. "It’s been too long since I’ve been inside you."
"Then why are you holding back?" she whispers, her lips grazing my jaw as she plants soft, tantalising kisses along the stubble.
"Because..." I pause, my hands steadying her hips as I fight against the pull of desire. "You’re already going through hell, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you, baby. You deserve better."
"I need this. I need you," she whispers, her voice trembling with raw desperation. "Make me feel alive, Nate. Please."
How the hell can I deny her when she pleads like that, her eyes begging me to give her something real, something that isn’t pain?
My hands trail along her thighs, pushing her dress higher, the fabric sliding up over her smooth skin. But when I glance down, my movements halt.
Bruises. Dark, angry blotches of black and blue stain her legs like cruel fingerprints. Not just bruises either. Scars. My chest tightens, my throat constricts, but I push her dress up further anyway.
The damage doesn’t stop at her legs. It spreads, a mosaic of torment wrapping around her torso. Some bruises are faded and yellowed, others fresh and vibrant, glaring accusations of the hell she’s endured. My hands hover above her skin, trembling as fury and heartbreak collide within me.
“Nate?” she whispers, eyes firmly planted towards the floor. “Please don’t.”
My entire body hums with barely contained rage.
