Page 107 of I'm sorry, Princess

How I’ll find them.

How I’ll break them.

How I’ll fucking unmake them.

I imagine their tongue, cut up, piece by piece, each one ripped from their mouth with the edge of my knife. I’ll make them apologize for every single hit before I slice another chunk. Beg for her fucking forgiveness before I move to their hands. One finger at a time, the same onesthat touched her, bruised her. And then their entire fucking hands, so they’ll never be able to hit another woman again. My woman.

Her breath hitches. “Lorenzo.”

The way she says my name, broken, desperate, only fuels the rage clawing at my chest. But for her, I hold it in. For now.

“Please, tell me.”

Please.

The word tastes wrong coming out of my mouth. I don’t ask for things. I don’t beg. I take what I want, what I need. But for her, I need to hear it from her lips.

Her body shakes, her breath uneven, and when the first real sob rips from her chest, something inside me fucking shatters.

She’s breaking in front of me. And the only thing I want to do is destroy every single person responsible for it.

“If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself,” I growl, my voice calm in a way that’s more terrifying than when I yell.

Because I will.

And if my gut is right, if my suspicions are even close to being true, then that motherfucker is already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.

I cup her face, my fingers brushing over her damp cheeks, my thumbs wiping away the endless tears that keep falling, like she can’t stop breaking right in front of me. And fuck, I don’t know how to fix this, but I have to. Her brown eyes, deep and drowning in pain, lock onto mine, and something inside my chest tightens so hard it feels like it’s going to fucking snap.

I lean in, pressing the lightest kiss to her trembling lips. She closes her eyes, like she’s letting herself believe in the comfort I’m trying to give, but the tears keep coming, rolling down her flushed cheeks, soaking into my skin.

Never again.

This is the last time I’ll ever let her cry like this.

I pull her into my arms, wrapping her up so tight there’s no space between us, like I can hold her together through sheer will. She clings to me, her body shaking, and then she starts to sob, loud, raw, gut-wrenching.

I can’t fucking breathe.

My vision blurs, my ears ring, my pulse pounds in my temples with every ragged sound coming from her mouth. My rage is burning a hole in my chest, but I push it down, keep it in check. Not now. Not when she needs me like this.

I loosen my hold just enough to look at her, pressing my lips against her forehead. Her tear-soaked lashes flutter, and when her eyes meet mine, there’s something there that wrecks me. She looks at me like she’ll break if I let go.

So I don’t.

Instead, I slide my hands down her body, slow, deliberate. I unfasten her dress and let it fall, my eyes tracing the curve of her body. She’s in nothing but a black thong. No bra. She’s fucking perfect. But this isn’t about sex.

Not tonight.

She watches me, uncertain, but she doesn’t stop me when I hook my fingers under the waistband of her thong and slide it down her legs. She closes her eyes, folding into my touch, surrendering.

I stay fully dressed as I lift her into my arms again, carrying her effortlessly through the house. Her head rests against my shoulder, her body warm and soft, fragile in a way that makes my blood boil.

The bathroom is quiet, peaceful in a way that I fucking crave but never get. The sound of running water fills the space as I turn the faucet, warm steam rising around us. I hold her against me, my arms locked around her waist, mylips brushing against her forehead as she exhales, her last tear slipping away.

She’s safe.

I lower her into the bath, watching the water rise around her skin. One second later, I’m joining her, fully clothed, because I don’t give a fuck about anything else right now but her.