Page 96 of The Colour of Revenge

"No."

Cold. Sharp. Familiar.

Carina.

She steps forward, a shadow peeling away from the darkness, her presence electric. Her face is unreadable. But her eyes? Her eyes burn.

And she's not alone.

He's with her. The man from the house. The one who's been living in my fucking place.

My blood fucking boils. The sight of them together is a knife to the gut, twisting deeper with every second.

“Carina,” I growl, my voice low and tight, barely containing the fury surging through me. “What the hell is this?” Then I add, “I thought you were sick,” so she doesn’t realise just how much I’ve stalked her this week.

“It’s you who’s sick, Nate,” she spits, her tone drenched in venom. The sound of my name from her lips cuts deeper than it should.

I take a step forward, my fists curling at my sides. “What are you talking about?”

Before she can respond, my father shifts uneasily beside me. His entire posture changes, tension rippling through him as realisation dawns.

He bolts for the door, but the man at Carina’s side is faster. He shoves my father back into the room with a blade glinting in his hand.

“Non pensarci nemmeno, cazzo7,”he snarls, his words unfamiliar but his threat crystal clear.

I lunge toward them, but Carina’s sharp voice stops me in my tracks.

“Legateli8,” she commands, her tone steely and authoritative.

Before I can react, she’s on me, zip-tying my wrists with precision and efficiency. Her hands, once soft and gentle, now bite into me with brutal force.

I yank against them, but the plastic doesn't budge.

“Carina,” I growl, my voice a dangerous warning, but she doesn’t even flinch.

Moments later, I’m shoved into a chair alongside my father, my body straining against the restraints. My fury burns hot and relentless.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snarl, the words ripping from my throat like a beast unleashed.

Carina doesn't even look at me.

Instead, my father speaks, his voice eerily calm. “Naomi.”

The name slithers through the air like a curse.

He says her name with a familiarity that sends my mind reeling. It’s not just recognition—it’s history.

Wait.

Naomi?

How does he—

“Edward,” she replies coldly, her tone dripping with contempt.

My stomach knots, a sickening realisation clawing its way to the surface.

“You know each other?” I demand, my voice cutting through the tension. My eyes dart between them.