Page 156 of The Colour of Revenge
Emily scoffs. “I’ve lived in Italy for twenty years, sweetheart. You think I don’t know the son of Massimo Russo?”
Enzo’s grin turns lethal. “Then you know what happens if you talk.”
He crosses his arms, trying to look intimidating, but the fact that he’s still shirtless ruins the effect.
Emily nods. “My lips are sealed.”
Then she’s gone.
My breath leaves me all at once.
My house feels wrong. Like it belongs to someone else.
A different version of myself.
It no longer feels like mine.
“Come on, let’s get you showered and into bed, Princess.” Nate places his hands on my shoulders, steering me towards the stairs.
My legs carry my forward numbly.
After Doctor Morgan's visit, Kai and Enzo finished the cleanup, giving Nate and me the green light to go home.
Now the adrenaline from her visit has left me, I’m back to feeling empty.
I don’t know what to do. How to go on with my life now my purpose is complete.
For seven years, I was broken down into a girl I no longer recognised. The only Naomi Beckett I remember.
Then, I spent eight years living as Carina Rossetti. She was fuelled by rage, by a vengeance that simmered under her skin.
Who am I now?
Somehow, we make it to the bathroom—I don’t remember any of it, only realising when I flinch to the sound of the shower turning on.
Nate places a hand under my chin, tilting my head to meet his eyes. Those dark brown eyes I love so much. It doesn’t matter that they came from Edward. They have none of his evil. Nate’s eyes are all good. They look at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.
“You’re going to be okay, Princess.”
He helps me undress, then takes my hand, pulling me under the spray with him.
I rest my head against his chest as the warm water cascades over my skin. His presence grounds me. It keeps me from falling too far.
Nate grabs my shampoo from the caddy, lathering up his hands before massaging it into my scalp. I moan at the way the tension leaves my body.
Once the shampoo is rinsed, he moves onto the conditioner, repeating the process.
Then he lathers a sponge with the shower gel and drags it over my skin, scrubbing every inch of me.
“Arms up.” He taps my shoulder. I lift them and I giggle at the tickling sensation of him cleaning my underarms.
“It’s good to hear you laugh, baby.”
Nate drops to his knees in front of me, running the sponge slowly down my legs. Gently, he cleans the thick, rope-like scars on my thighs—the ones that still make my stomach twist.
He rinses the soap away first, then presses a soft kiss to the raised lines.
"Beautiful," he whispers.
