Page 167 of The Colour of Revenge
“It’s like riding a bike,” I reply, gesturing to the pathetic excuse for a human in front of us. “Except with way more screaming. And, you know, blood.”
Her snort is soft, nearly lost under the buzz of the overhead lights, but I catch it. That small crack in her armour. Adorable, really, considering she could kill me with that knife she’s twirling like a baton.
But this isn’t about her. Not anymore.
She’s here for them. The women at Haven walk through its doors with nothing but shattered pieces and stories that would make the devil himself recoil. She’s their beacon now. Their hope.
And scum like this—human filth that preys on the weak—they need to burn so those women never have to fear again.
She nods once, a silent signal, and we move.
My blade flashes; her boot connects. The man’s head jerks back with a sickening crack, a garbled scream spilling from his lips.
“Please!” he sputters, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. “Please don’t kill me!”
Carina tilts her head. There’s something almost curious in the way she looks at him.
“Kill you?” she echoes. She steps closer and lets him see the lethal stillness in her eyes. “Who said anything about killing you?”
Not yet.
His gaze snaps to me, wild and desperate, searching for salvation.
A fatal fucking error.
I crouch beside him, levelling my blade just beneath his chin. Not pressing. Not yet. Just enough for him to feel the threat humming between us.
“You think you deserve mercy?” I ask quietly, watching as the words sink in. “You don’t get to beg for your life. Not when you’ve destroyed so many others.”
His breath comes fast, shallow. His lips tremble. He’s still hoping. Fool.
“Please,” he tries again, weaker this time. “Please have mercy.”
I sigh, resting my forearm lazily on my knee. “Buddy,” I say, dragging the knife down just enough to draw a thin red line, “you’re barking up the wrong psychopath.”
With a flick of my wrist, the blade sinks into his side.
His scream is music. A symphony of justice.
Carina watches, her lips twitching. “Still satisfying, huh?” Her voice is dry, but there’s something else underneath it.
I grin. “Every damn time.”
She shakes her head, exhaling a sound that’s almost a laugh.
And that’s when I know.
It’s now or never.
“Hey, Princess,” I call, standing.
She arches a brow, still twirling the knife lazily in her fingers. “Yeah?”
"I have a hypothetical question," I say, smirking at the question in her eyes.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the small box that has haunted me for weeks. Her pink hair gleams as her head tilts, and her eyes narrow as I drop to one knee.
Yes. In the puddle of blood.
