Page 15 of Always A Villain (Revenge Duet #2)

My eyes land on the two men bleeding out beside us—what the hell did we just do?

We just fucked in an alley after he beat those guys into a bloody mess, and I loved every second of it.

The violence, the power—it was hot, scary, and disturbingly erotic.

His dominance, his anger, his possessiveness… He’s everything.

I straighten up, legs still shaking, mind reeling. I let my dress fall, smoothing out the creases.

“What about them?” I nod toward the bodies sprawled on the ground.

“I’ll take care of it,” he replies, his tone emotionless. His jaw tenses as his eyes land on them.

“What does that mean? Will they be okay?”

“I won't repeat myself.”

“Axe—”

He quickly steps in, caging me in with his body, his face inches from mine.

“You're pushing it, little siren. I'm not going to tell you again.” He inhales deeply, gently gripping my chin, tilting my face up. “Now, go clean up and get ready to leave.”

“Okay,” I whisper, still dazed from what just happened. As I walk down the alley, the afterglow makes me unsteady.

I sneak past the loud crowd in the ballroom, to the restroom.

Glancing at my reflection, my eyes widen in disbelief.

There are streaks of blood on my neck and collarbone.

My lipstick and mascara are smeared all over my face.

My hair is an absolute disaster—curls tangled and frizzy.

I look like a woman who was just thoroughly fucked in an alleyway.

I can’t help but smirk as I start cleaning myself up, but the weight of reality still crashes down.

What the hell is wrong with me? The adrenaline, the danger, the violence...

But honestly, watching him go off like that to protect me was ridiculously sexy.

And he called me his wife. I’ve been his wife this whole time, but he’s never said it before.

Does it mean anything? Does it change things?

Do I even want it to change things? You can’t get attached to a guy like him.

But damn it, I am attached—attached to how he makes me feel, the way he touches me, dominates me.

I’m completely addicted .

I finish cleaning up and head back into the party, which feels more chaotic now. Spotting Spencer in the crowd, I push my way through.

“Hey, you disappeared!” Spencer says, wrapping me in a hug. “Where’d you run off to?”

“Uh, just stepped outside for some air,” I say, flashing a quick smile.

We chat for a bit, and I can tell he’s in a slightly better mood than earlier.

But when he leans in, voice low, and tells me there are still no leads on who attacked the Red Arena, a knot tightens in my stomach.

The Sovereign are supposed to be untouchable; for them to be scrambling to find out who did this, it’s unsettling.

I didn’t think it was possible for the Sovereign to have enemies more powerful than them.

After a moment, I spot Axe by the door, and he gives me a quick nod. I hug Spencer and say my goodbyes, promising to catch up soon.

As I weave through the room to Axe, I ignore Dad—no need to waste breath on him. He put on quite the show tonight, parading me around like a trophy for all his colleagues and Associates.

Tonight…there was something different in his eyes.

A spark of genuine pride, maybe? It ignites a tiny flicker of hope in me.

Could it be that he actually cares? That he’s proud of me?

For a split second, I think maybe I’m not the burden he’s always made me feel like.

But I shove the thought away, the sting of years of rejection still fresh.

It’s pointless to hope; he’ll never want me.

Axe opens the car door for me, and I slide in, the leather cool against my back. As he pulls away from the curb, the streets are nearly deserted, the city lights streaking against the dark glass.

“Where’s Griffen?” I ask.

“Went home with a Slut.”

The silence stretches between us until he finally breaks it. “When did you learn how to dance?”

I blink, caught off guard, and glance over at him. His eyes are glued to the road, expression locked in neutral.

“What?” I ask, still processing the question.

“Dancing. When did you start?”

“Oh,” I exhale, surprised he’s even interested. “My mom started teaching me ballet when I was four. She loved to dance.” The weight of nostalgia creeps in and tugs at my heart.

“Was she a performer, too?”

“No, not like me. She was a real dancer—a prima ballerina in Italy. She was incredible.” I gaze out the window, memories of her flooding my mind, making my chest ache.

“What happened to her?” His question hits hard. He’s never asked before, and I’ve never been willing to share that part of myself with him.

“She was killed.” I shift in my seat to stare at him. “A home invasion when I was ten.”

“Where were you?”

“I was in bed. I woke up to her screaming. Tried to get out of my room, but the door was either blocked or jammed. It wouldn’t budge.”

“And then?”

I study his face. His jaw is clenched, eyes laser-focused on the road ahead .

“I heard her screams. They just kept hurting her. There was nothing I could do. Back then, I didn’t fully understand what was happening—only that she was in pain. As I grew up, I realized they had raped her before they shot her.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles turning white.

“They?”

“Yeah. Two men. They broke down my door, and one of them tried to take me.”

“But they didn’t?”

“No. They bolted when they heard the sirens. But not before one of them told me, tornerò per te. ”

“I’ll come back for you,” we say in unison.

I look at him, surprised. “You speak Italian?”

“Enough.” He shrugs, but his demeanor shifts, turning serious. “The men who killed your mother were Italian?”

I nod, my fingers picking at my skin.

“Did they hurt you?”

“No. The one who tried to take me was crying, wouldn’t let me go. The other guy was just angry, screaming that they needed to leave.”

“Did you ever see them again? Did he ever come back?”

“No. But I spent years scared that he would,” I confess. A shiver runs down my spine as the lingering fear slithers back in.

“Where was your father?” His sudden curiosity is throwing me off guard. Why now? But I push it aside and continue sharing.

“My parents had a fight. My dad stormed out, and my mom had already tucked me in. The cops said those guys must’ve been watching us, waiting for the perfect moment.

When my dad came home, the police were all over the place.

He was hysterical, trying to bulldoze his way in, but they were blocking the door.

I saw him, and I ran to him, but he shoved me away, yelling at me not to touch him.

Then he screamed at the police to let him through.

” Anger bubbles up within me, the memory a raw wound that’s never fully healed.

“Did they catch them?” He looks at me, brow furrowed.

“No.” I meet his gaze, my voice sharp. “And I never understood why. They had DNA; we had security cameras. I remember screaming at my dad, accusing him of not trying hard enough. He’s one of the most powerful Sovereign on the East Coast, and he had an entire police force at his fingertips, yet they found nothing.

It didn’t make sense. He could’ve hired the best investigators and trackers, but still— nothing .

” Frustration seeps into my voice, tinged with sadness.

“But I think it was just too painful for him. Even if they had been caught, it wouldn’t have changed anything. She would still be gone.”

Reaching over, he laces his fingers through mine.

I blink, completely thrown off by the unexpected gesture.

Axe isn’t exactly the hand-holding type.

Or any affection type, if I’m being honest. But here he is, gripping my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And even more surprisingly, I’m not complaining.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I.

Exhaustion slams into me, heavy and unrelenting. For a moment, the quiet hum of the engine lulls me, but the silence is short-lived.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re allergic to dairy? ”

I give him a side-eye, and he smirks.

“Uh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re not exactly chatty,” I shoot back. “You don’t ask a lot of questions, and you definitely don’t do small talk.”

He raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk still playing on his lips. “I’m talking now, aren’t I?”

“A rare occurrence.”

“True.” His voice dips, teasing, but there’s a softness in it I don’t expect. “So, you didn’t tell me because...?”

“It never came up.”

“So, do I need to start carrying an EpiPen around or something?” His behavior is unusual, like he's concerned, which is…laughable.

“No, I just throw up and get hives for a few days.”

He hums, lips pursing slightly, like he’s seriously weighing the pros and cons. “I’ll get some EpiPens.”

I blink. “Wait, what? You're serious?”

“Yeah.” No hesitation, no sarcasm. He's dead serious.

“Okay...”

His grip on my hand tightens, thumb tracing lazy circles on my skin.

The small, unconscious gesture tugs at something deep inside me, something I don’t want to think about.

Because, really, this is Axel Hawthorne—the Reaper.

The same man who carried around a severed jaw in an arena, parading his brutality like a badge of honor.

But right now, he's just a guy holding my hand. And damn, it feels...nice.

Inside the house, he stops, turning to face me. Slowly, he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that shouldn’t exist in a man like him .

“Goodnight, little siren.” His lips brush my forehead in a feather-light kiss.

I freeze. I’m not sure how to process this shift, this tenderness that seems so out of place. When he pulls back, his dark eyes lock onto mine.

“Goodnight,” I whisper. He lingers for a second, then turns, disappearing up the stairs.

I stand there, frozen, staring after him.

What the hell just happened? Every part of me is tangled in complicated knots, fighting this pull he has over me.

It's infuriating. The more time I spend with him, the more I fall for him. And it’s becoming increasingly difficult to remind myself that he doesn't want anything more than sex. I'm his toy and nothing more.

Finally slipping into bed, I try to push the evening out of my head, but it clings to me. His voice echoes in my ears, calling me his wife .