Page 122 of Beneath Scarred Vows

I pause for a moment, allowing my rage and anger to make me see red.

"And to the rest of you fuckers down there?—"

I step forward into the shadows with one thought on my mind:

I'm going to cause every enemy down there so much fucking pain, their soul will beg to leave their body. They took my wife. Now I'm taking their lives.

42

KATERINA

The zip tie digs deeper into my wrist, slicing through skin that's already raw and bleeding. I've been working at it for—how long? Hours? Days? Time blurs in this cellar with no windows, no light save for the single bulb hanging overhead.

I twist my hands again, biting down on my lip to keep from crying out. Blood makes my fingers slippery, which should help, but the plastic only seems to tighten with each attempt.

"Fuck," I whisper, leaning my head back against the cold stone wall. "Come on," I say, wishing my ties would loosen.

My body aches everywhere. Sebastian's men have been anything but gentle, and I can still feel the sting on my cheek where that prick hit me, still see the satisfaction in his eyes when I flinched.

I close my eyes, trying to focus, to push through all this pain.

Ares isn't coming.

The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I hate myself immediately. Of course he'll come. He's Ares. He comes for what's his. Always.

But what if I'm not his anymore? Some of our last words were angry ones. I defended a man he believes killed his father. A man who potentially set him up all because of me.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought.

Blood drips down my fingers onto the cold stone floor, and I swear I get a whiff of his cologne—a cruel trick my mind is playing on me.

But what would I tell Ares, if I could see him again? If I could take back those angry words, handle things differently to avoid that stupid fight?

I close my eyes, and suddenly I'm back in our bedroom in Chicago. His fingertips tracing the outline of my scar. His eyes holding mine, never flinching away from the damaged parts of me. The first man who ever looked at me—all of me—and didn't see something broken.

"You're beautiful," he'd told me, and for the first time, I believed it.

I remember standing in front of that mirror at Hades, naked and exposed, my scarred side visible to both of us. I remember how I wanted to curl in on myself, to hide, but he wouldn't let me.

"See yourself," he'd said. "See what I see."

And slowly, through his eyes, I started to.

God, what I wouldn't give to go back to that moment. To feel his hands on my waist, pulling me against him. To feel his breath on my skin as he claimed me.

I never told him how proud I was of him. How he's done everything and more to lead our family. That his father would be proud. That he's grown, too.

We're both so scarred, so damaged. Both afraid to trust, unsure of our abilities, afraid to fail. But somehow, between all that, we found each other. And used our weakness to become the strongest we ever could.

I pull against my restraints again, harder this time, ignoring the fresh wave of pain that shoots up my arms. I will not die here. I will get back to him. I will tell him all the things I should have said before.

That I see him. That I understand him. That I know what it costs him every time he lets me in.

That I want to give him lots of children and grow old with him and help him in whatever dreams he has for our family. To be the best wife because he's made me the best woman.

A loud bang from somewhere above startles me from my thoughts. Shouting follows, then what sounds like furniture being overturned.

My heart leaps to my throat. Could it be?