Page 34 of The Colour of Revenge
The question lingers, cutting deeper than any blade ever could.
I keep my hands moving, methodical—cleaning, prepping for the next step—but my mind churns. Finally, I glance at her, my voice quieter, raw.
"It wasn't a choice at first. It just… happened. And once I got a taste for it, there was no going back. Justice is necessary, but destruction?" I meet her gaze, letting her see the truth. Letting her see me. "That's what makes it sweet."
Her lips part like she wants to ask more, to pry deeper, but instead, she picks up a blade. And just like that, we fall into a rhythm—cutting, slicing, bleeding the last remnants of life from Declan's useless body.
A grim sort of harmony.
Blood streaks Carina's face, dark and glistening against her skin. It mats her hair, stains her clothes, and drips from her fingers. The room is silent except for the faint, rhythmic splatter of blood hitting the floor.
She stands over Declan's lifeless body, her breath ragged, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.
She's magnificent.
Her eyes find mine, wild and unrestrained, and the pull between us snaps tight—something dark and electric and inevitable.
"Do you enjoy watching me work, Nate?" she asks, voice low, teasing.
The corner of my mouth tugs upward. "I think I'm falling in love."
Her breath hitches. For a fleeting second, I see it—the cracks in her armour, the vulnerability hidden beneath the chaos.
She steps closer, the scent of blood thick in the air between us, her lips barely an inch from mine.
"You're playing a dangerous game," she murmurs, a tremor to the words.
I lift a hand, my thumb grazing her bottom lip, tugging it gently. Testing the boundary between restraint and ruin.
"Good thing I'm not afraid of danger."
The world fades—the blood, the body, the chaos. It's just us, standing on the edge of something that could destroy us both.
And neither of us has any intention of turning back.
9
Time To Destroy Him
Hypothetical Question: If you could erase one crime from history, but had to replace it with another, what would you swap?
Carina
Robertcontrolledmeinevery possible way.
To him, I wasn’t a person—I was property. A possession to be shaped, broken, and displayed. He dictated everything: when I woke up, what I ate, how I spoke. There was no room for grey areas. No space for freedom. I couldn’t even breathe without his permission.
It started small. Rules disguised as concern. A curated list of approved foods. Punishments when I strayed—privileges revoked, hours locked away in silence, the air thick with the scent of his cologne. The first time he left me in that room, I thought I’d lose my mind. But that was only the beginning.
Then came the clothes.
Oh, the clothes.
Robert had a vision for what I should look like, and if I didn’t conform, he made sure I knew how much I displeased him. Dresses that clung too tightly, skirts too short, heels too high. Every piece of fabric reminded me of the control I no longer had over my body.
But it wasn’t just physical. He stripped me down piece by piece—mentally and emotionally. He made me feel small. Made me question my voice. I learned to think before I spoke. Learned to measure my breaths. I wasn’t allowed friends. No connections outside of himself.
I was a prisoner.
