Page 16

Instead of heading straight to the lawyer’s office, I park in front of the boutique my family always visits on the rare occasion we travel to New York City.

When Camilla notices where we are, she takes a long breath in and exhales hard as she runs her hands over her messy ponytail.

She meets my eyes through the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more presentable when I dragged you around the jewelry store,” she says.

Furious disbelief spears through me.

“You were perfect then and you are perfect now, so?lnyshka . You do not have to change if you do not want to. This is for me. I must look like a god as I marry you,” I say.

“The god who captured a beam of light,” she murmurs to herself, then shakes her head and continues despite the blush on her face. “We’re just signing papers today, right?”

“Da, ” I assure her.

She nods and slips her purse onto her shoulder.

I turn off the engine and climb out of the vehicle. No one honks when I open Camilla’s door, and the well-dressed people on the sidewalk give us a wide berth as I usher my wife into the boutique.

When the lady behind the counter recognizes me, Camilla gives her a covert once-over.

“Will that be one or two dressing rooms?” the woman asks.

“One,” Camilla answers for me.

The fire in her eyes warms my soul and hardens my cock.

When I request semiformal options in my size for a wedding, the woman carefully widens her smile and turns to lead us down the hall, but Camilla stops her and places her requirements before nodding permission for the woman to lead us to the largest dressing room.

Less than two minutes later, the woman and her assistant roll in two racks of clothing and an accessory display cart. When she asks if we need anything, I say no and tell them not to disturb us until I call them. She agrees and closes the curtains on her way out of the room.

Camilla looks through the rack of women’s clothes with an unimpressed expression.

I focus on the men’s clothing and choose the suit I like best. When Camilla pulls her sweatshirt over her head, I turn my back to give her privacy.

“You can look. You should know what you’re getting into before you sign the papers,” she says in a flippant tone, but the tension in her voice gives away her fear.

“Are you sure, so?lnyshka ? I cannot pretend I do not want you,” I growl.

She folds her sweatshirt, places it on the vanity, and moves the knife from her waistband to her purse before replying.

“I don’t have many visual triggers, so if you don’t touch me, I should be fine.”

She ends with a shrug and a scowl before meeting my gaze. The vulnerability shining from her eyes battles with her resolution.

“All it takes is one word, and I will look away , da? ”

Despite my firm words, for the first time in my entire life, I worry my will won’t win against my wants.

She nods and kicks her sneakers off with stiff movements. Certain she’ll rescind her offer if I openly gawk at her, I hang my selection on the end of the rack and shrug my jacket off my shoulders as she grabs the bottom hem of her t-shirt.

My heart leaps into my throat as liquid desire travels down my spine.

The lake of need in my balls grows exponentially with every inch of flesh she exposes.

I toss my jacket toward the couch and barely register it falling to the floor instead of landing where I aimed as she pulls her t-shirt over her head.

Barely a mouthful, her small, pert breasts don’t need a bra, but when the marks on her flesh register, I realize she skips the layer out of necessity.

Scars itch and burn long after the injury heals, so any tight fabric would irritate the thick, jagged line down the right side of her ribs.

My vision flips to red as I take in the marks my brother left on her body. It doesn’t matter if he was there that night or not. He will pay double for every ounce of pain he caused her.

Cigarette burns, whip marks, thin white knife wounds, and thicker, uneven scars mar what should be the creamy skin of her torso.

She pushes her sweatpants off her hips and lets them pool around her feet, revealing more scars down her legs.

With only the black material of her panties covering her ass and sex, the tale of my brother’s cruelty written on her body shines in the harsh fluorescent lights.

My feet carry me across the room without my permission. She vibrates with tension, never looking away from my face. I feel her eyes searching my expression, but I can’t stop cataloging the marks my brother left on her perfect curves.

Camilla doesn’t step away even when I invade her space. I force my feet to stop and close my hands into fists at my sides before meeting her bottomless, nearly black eyes.

“I will kill them all for touching you, but not before I make them suffer tenfold what they did to you. I will get revenge for you, Camilla,” I snarl.

She lifts her trembling chin.

“Promise?”

The hatred and anger swimming in the inky darkness of her eyes endears me to her. She is beautiful when she is vicious.

“Da, Camilla. I promise,” I say.

A tear slips down her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb, wanting to cup her face in my hands and worship her but keeping the contact brief. A tremor shakes her from head to toe. She shifts her gaze to my shoulders.

“Count them,” she whispers.

I don’t understand what she means. A second tear escapes her lashes. When I wipe it away, my thumb brushes over the thin white scars on her cheek.

The only proof on her face of what she survived. The only marks she can never cover with clothes. The marks she must see every time she looks in the mirror.

“Eight,” I growl.

She takes a deep breath. Shifts her gaze back to my face. And decimates my soul with her whisper.

“Six more to kill.”

Icy fury closes my throat.

I seal my vow with a nod.

They cut her for every man who hurt her. My woman survived horrors no human should ever have to survive. Eight men beat and raped her. Two are dead.

The other six will wish they were.

I’ll make sure of it.

Killing my brother is no longer a matter of family honor.

It is very, very personal.