Page 41 of The Colour of Revenge

Silence.

The weight of his final breath lingers in the air, curling around us like smoke.

She turns to me, her chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths, the adrenaline rush still visible in her eyes. The heat between us pulses like a living thing, stretching taut, ready to snap.

"Nicely done, my Queen," I call out, stepping toward her.

She meets my gaze, and I swear to God, something shifts.

Something heavy. Something irreversible.

She's fire and fury and something I can't fucking resist.

I reach out, my fingers ghosting along the smooth skin of her arm, heat radiating between us like an unspoken promise. A silent dare.

She doesn't pull away.

Her breath hitches, barely audible, but I hear it.

I trail my touch lower, slow, deliberate, taking my time until I reach her hand, her fingers still curled around the knife's handle.

I slide it from her grasp, holding it between us.

My voice drops to a whisper.

"You're perfect."

"Nate…" she breathes, her body tilting toward mine—instinct, surrender, something in between.

She's daring me to take what I want.

And fuck, do I want her.

"I want you so fucking much," I growl, the need clawing at my insides, a demanding, insatiable need forher. My cock throbs painfully at the sight of her—the blood splattered across her cheek, the satisfaction still lingering in her expression.

Her lips part, and when she speaks, it's a breathy, aching moan. "Then have me."

That's all it takes.

I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing the last traces of restraint.

There's nothing gentle about it—we're devouring each other, consuming, unravelling. My tongue slides against the seam of her lips, demanding entry, and when she parts them, I take what's mine.

Her taste—fuck. It wrecks me.

Carina moans into my mouth, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me impossibly close. It's like we're both trying to crawl inside each other and fuse into something singular, something primal.

My hands find her hips, dragging her against me, forcing her to feel the thick, aching length pressing against her stomach. She gasps as the cool metal of the knife grazes the exposed sliver of skin between her top and leggings.

Her eyes snap to mine—molten, daring.

I grin. Slowly, I trail the blunt edge of the blade up her body, dragging it higher, feeling the way her breath catches. I keep going, letting it rest just above the curve of her breast, where her top dips low, teasing me with the promise of more.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, a silent invitation.

"I could kill you right now, Princess," I murmur, my voice thick with something dangerous. "You let me willingly disarm you."

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away.