Page 124 of The Colour of Revenge

The feeling wakes me first.

Not pain. Not the dull, aching weight of my injuries.

The weight of someone’s gaze.

The hairs on my arms stand on end. The air shifts. It feels wrong, charged with something deadly.

A shadow at the edge of my vision.

I force my eyes open.

When I do, I’m met with the sight of him looming over me, a twisted smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“Time for breakfast,” he says, his voice icy, laced with dark amusement.

I blink away the grogginess, my mind still foggy from the haze of exhaustion. His face is too close—too close for comfort.

“Fuck off,” I mumble, my throat raw from shouting and the silence of my imprisonment.

He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t test my patience, Naomi,” he warns, his voice low and menacing.

I groan as I try to sit up, but every muscle in my body protests. My ribs ache, my limbs feel like dead weight, and the pounding headache is unbearable. It’s like my body is revolting against me for even trying to move.

“That’s not my name,” I force out. The words are barely a whisper, but I know he hears them.

His expression doesn’t change. “It is the name I gave you.”

The finality in his tone sends ice through my veins. This isn’t just imprisonment. He’s rewriting me.

I grit my teeth, forcing down the nausea rolling through me. I need to hold onto myself. If I lose that, I lose everything.

“Why are you doing this?” I manage to get the words out through gritted teeth, my voice cracking from the strain. My heart pounds in my chest, but it’s not from fear—it’s from the overwhelming rage that’s building inside me. I need answers.

“I told you,” he responds flatly, “You’re mine.”

The words coil around me, suffocating me.

I stare at him, something sharp and broken clawing up my chest. “You sold me,” I spit out, the words tasting like bile.

He shrugs. Unfazed. Like this is a discussion about the weather.

“I needed the money.”

The simplicity of it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. No remorse. No hesitation.

Just a man making a business deal.

“There are other ways to get money.” My voice shakes—not with fear, but with a rage so consuming it feels like it might swallow me whole.

He hums, tapping his fingers lightly on the bedpost. Casual. Thoughtful. As if we were discussing investment strategies.

“Perhaps.” A slight shrug. “But they didn’t come with as many strings attached.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

He’s enjoying this.

“This way, I could ensure a steady income. A nice little side business.” His smirk widens. The implication slithers through the air, wrapping around my throat.