Page 142 of The Colour of Revenge

This isn’t me.

This isn’t my life.

Not anymore.

My teeth sink into his flesh, hard and unrelenting. His scream tears through the room, raw and guttural, a twisted symphony of pain.

Triumph surges through me, hot and electric, as the bitter tang of blood coats my tongue. I spit it out, releasing him, and he stumbles back, collapsing to the floor.

He writhes, clutching at his broken, throbbing dick, his face contorted in agony. “What thefuckdid you do?” he chokes out between ragged breaths, his voice a jagged edge of fury and disbelief.

I don’t answer. There’s no time to waste. My feet carry me to his office on autopilot, the adrenaline coursing through my veins sharpening my focus. The kitchen knives are locked away, always out of my reach, but I know his habits. There’s a letter opener on the desk. My fingers close around it, the cold steel grounding me, its weight a promise.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I return to him. He’s still sprawled on the floor, his breaths shallow, his body trembling. I drop to my knees beside him, the blade gleaming in the dim light.

“What I should have done a long time ago,” I say, my voice low, venom lacing each word.

His bloodshot eyes flick to mine, then to the blade in my hand. Fear blooms in his gaze, but it doesn’t overpower his smug arrogance. Even now, he thinks he can manipulate me.

“Carina,” he wheezes, trying to muster authority. It’s the first time he’s used my new name, and it speaks of just how little control he has right now. “Think this through. You know what’ll happen—to you, to your precious boyfriend.”

I laugh, sharp and cold, the sound cutting through his words like a blade. “You don’t get it, do you? There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect him.”

“Then be smart about this,” he pleads, desperation seeping into his tone.

“I am,” I state simply.

I don’t have time for theatrics. No time to make him suffer the way I’d like to. This needs to end. Now.

I drive the letter opener down with all the strength I have, burying it in his chest. His eyes widen in shock, a gurgle escaping his lips as blood bubbles up, spilling down his chin.

“Ci vediamo all’inferno15,” I hiss, watching as the light drains from his eyes, his body slumping into stillness.

For a moment, I just sit there, the room heavy with silence except for my ragged breathing. My hand shakes, still clutching the bloodied letter opener, and the enormity of what I’ve done starts to creep in.

What the fuck just happened?

Then I remember. The phone. The one Nate slipped me, tucked away in my bra. My fingers fumble as I pull it out, the slickness of sweat on my skin making it harder to grip. I find his name—the only contact stored—and press the call button.

It rings once before his voice cuts through the chaos in my head, smooth and steady. “Princess?”

“I fucked up,” I blurt, my voice cracking.

“Tell me,” he replies, his tone calm but commanding.

I recount the events in a rush, words tumbling out as he listens, asking the occasional sharp question. His focus is like a lifeline, anchoring me to the present.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, his voice muffled as he speaks to someone else. “You can both handle knives, right?”

There’s a pause, followed by an annoyed sigh. “Yes, you can have the pink one. For fuck’s sake, Kai.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s a broken, shaky sound, but it’s real. God, I’ve missed this. Missedthem.Their easy banter feels like a thread pulling me back to sanity.

“Nate,” I whisper, my voice steadier now.

“I’ve got you,” he soothes. “Just sit tight. We’re on our way.”

Nate arrives an hour later; I buzz him through the gates and the knock on the door cuts through the silence like a knife. I’m still in the hallway, pacing nervously, when the sound jolts me out of my thoughts.