Page 40 of The Colour of Revenge

The flicker of defiance wavers. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. His eyes dart around, searching for an escape that doesn't exist.

He's trapped.

And soon, he'll be begging.

Not that I plan to give him any mercy.

Nate

Carina is a vision.

An angel of death.

I shouldn't be surprised that she got to Robert first. If it were anyone else, I wouldn't tolerate sharing the fun. But watching her work—watching her enact her revenge—fuck, it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.

Robert just spilled all his secrets for the camera—after some convincing, which involved removing his pinky finger. That was a nice touch.

Carina clicks off the camera without hesitation, stalking back toward him with fluid and predatory movements that make my pulse spike. The balaclava is gone now, discarded like the last remnants of her restraint. She doesn't bother to hide her face as she steps closer, allowing him to see exactly who's here to end him.

She peels off the coveralls, revealing the second skin beneath—leggings that hug every dangerous curve and a pink top so tight it might be sinful.

My fingers flex at my sides, my restraint fraying at the edges.

Carina is intoxicating.

She doesn't just command the room—she owns it.

Her eyes flick to mine for a fraction of a second, and I swear I see a flush creep up her throat. My cock twitches, rock-hard in my jeans, straining against the denim as I watch her revel in her power.

She enjoys it.

She thrives on it.

And it's making me lose my fucking mind.

Robert trembles now, his broken body sagging, his pleading eyes locked onto Carina. And she—she doesn't flinch. She doesn't hesitate.

Her lips curl into a sneer, pure disdain lacing her features.

A glint in her eyes—a hunger—makes my chest tighten. She's not just seeking justice. She's feeling this. Absorbing it. Letting the power seep into her skin and settle deep inside her bones.

The air between us thickens, charged with something dark and all-consuming that I can't quite name.

And I fucking want it.

I shift, adjusting the painful strain in my jeans as she steps closer to Robert, curling her fingers around the knife again. I feel it deep in my gut—the tension, the need—twisting tighter with every second.

I should be the one in control.

I should be the one ending Robert's life.

But all I can do is watch her, my breath shallow, my body thrumming with the raw, unfiltered craving coursing through my veins.

Carina lifts the knife.

Robert gasps.

And then—