Page 84 of The Colour of Revenge

"Nate," Carina’s voice is steady, though I can hear the undertone of her own rage. "I had this."

"I know," I reply, not taking my eyes off Carmichael’s panicked expression. "But he’s done breathing now."

And then I snap his fucking neck.

His body goes limp, slumping in the chair like the worthless piece of shit he was.

The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated only by the sound of Carina’s heavy breathing.

Then, she exhales. Slowly. Like a weight has been lifted.

I step closer, brushing blood-sticky hair from her face. "You okay, baby?"

She looks up at me, dark eyes unreadable. Then she grabs my collar and kisses me hard.

Yeah. She's okay.

And I'm never letting her go.

The room is eerily quiet, and Carina's uneven breathing is the only sound. The sharp tang of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic.

"I couldn’t let him talk to you like that," I murmur. My voice is steady, but inside, I’m still burning.

She exhales, shoulders rolling back as the tension drains from her body. Relief. Or closure.

"You're lucky I like you," she says, lips curling into a small, almost lazy smile. But her eyes—they're still dark, still haunted.

"And you're lucky I don't mind cleaning up after you," I reply, keeping my voice light. But my gaze stays locked on hers, searching. "You’re okay?"

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she looks down at Carmichael's body, her expression shifting—triumph, satisfaction... but something else. Something raw.

"Better now," she finally says.

But as I step closer, letting my hand trail down her arm, I feel it—the way her pulse skips beneath my fingers. The way her breath hitches.

She's steady. But not untouched.

And neither am I.

20

Please Don’t Stab Me

Hypothetical Question: If you could have a personal theme song that played every time you entered a room, but it had to be horribly inappropriate for every situation, what song would you pick?

Carina

Michael’sencounterhasunsettledme. Not just because of what he said or how he grabbed me, but because I didn’t end him. Nate did. And now, lying in his arms, that fact gnaws at me.

I should feel relieved. Safe. But instead, there’s this feeling in my chest—a dull, insistent ache like something is slipping out of my control.

I’ve fought so hard to become this version of myself. The untouchable woman. Who doesn’t break. Who doesn’t need saving. But now, I feel small again for the first time in years.

There’s this unsettling feeling deep in my gut, a quiet warning that something—something big—is about to go terribly wrong.

“Morning,” Nate murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, pulling me from my thoughts.

I blink open my eyes, the morning light blinding me for a moment before I turn to face him. He’s so impossibly beautiful. Sometimes, I can’t believe he’s mine. That this man would do anything for me. Even kill for me.