Page 23 of The Colour of Revenge

But I do.

And that's the problem.

Nate's voice cuts through my thoughts, softer this time. "Carina." His eyes lock on mine. "It suits you."

Damn him.

I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. "Thanks."

He leans back, studying me with that lazy, confident smirk. "So,Queen Carina, what's next on your royal agenda?"

I arch a brow. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

His smile deepens. The air between us shifts, thickening and pulsing with something unspoken. I catch the slight change in his posture, the way his shoulders relax as he exhales, and the way his fingers tap rhythmically on the table—like he's controlling the beat of something primal that wants to break free.

For the first time in a long time, I feel alive.

But it's a dangerous kind of life.

I know better than to trust it.

My past taught me that men are monsters. They wear charming smiles like masks and hide their cruelty behind soft words.

But maybe—just maybe—not all of them are.

I remember the first time Doctor Morgan tried to convince me of that.

"I know this is hard to believe, Carina," she had said softly, "but not all men are bad."

I laughed—the sound bitter, sharp, cold.

"You're kidding, right?" My eyes flicked up to hers, daring her to argue. "Because in my experience, they're either monsters or cowards."

She hadn't flinched. Hadn't looked away. Instead, she leaned forward, hands resting lightly on the arms of her chair.

"I'm not saying what you went through wasn't horrific. It was. And I would never minimise that." Her voice was steady, commanding attention. "But if you believe that every man is like the ones who hurt you, you're letting them control you, even now."

A part of me had wanted to believe her.

A bigger part had refused.

And now, here I am.

Caught between caution and something darker.

Staring at Nate—a dangerous man, but differently—I don't know what to think anymore. How he looks at me—like he sees something no one else ever has—makes the edges of my world blur. His gaze is steady, smouldering, and unreadable.

I slowly sip my drink, using the moment to gather my thoughts. They're scattered, unravelling in ways I don't like. In ways that feel dangerous.

Nate doesn't look away.

He doesn't push.

Instead, he sits there, his presence wrapping around me like a quiet storm. There's an understanding between us, unspoken but absolute. We both feel this thing crackling in the air, sharp and electric. It's not normal.

It's messy. Twisted.

And maybe that's what makes it so damn intoxicating.