Page 39 of The Colour of Revenge
I let the silence stretch, let the tension coil between us like a predator waiting to strike.
Then, I tilt my head and smile. "This? This is revenge."
I lunge before he can react, slamming into him with enough force to send his naked body sprawling onto the cold marble floor.
A grunt of pain rips from his throat as I use his vulnerability against him, pressing my knee into his chest. Before he can even think about fighting back, I grab his balls and squeeze—hard.
His howl echoes through the vast room, reverberating against the high ceilings.
He curls in on himself, gasping, and I use the moment to yank out the cable ties from my pocket, binding his wrists in a swift, practised motion. He struggles, but I already have the upper hand.
Dragging him up by the ties, I pull him behind me, scanning the space for the perfect spot.
Ah.
The chair.
Positioned perfectly in the centre of the dining room—a throne-turned prison.
I shove him down into the seat, ignoring his groans of pain, and pull the rope tighter around his wrists. Nate taught me this technique - how to ensure no escape while avoiding loss of circulation that might make him pass out too soon. The thought of Nate makes my chest tighten, but I shove it aside.
Focus, Carina.
I step back and survey my work. He's trapped. Helpless.
But we're not done yet.
Turning on my heel, I head back to the hallway where I left my bag, grabbing my final preparations: a voice modulator, coverall, and the pink balaclava.
The balaclava was Nate's idea—a touch of my signature style, even in the darkness.
He understands me in ways that should be terrifying.
Instead, it feels like I've found a missing piece of myself.
Pulling the balaclava down over my face, I catch my reflection in the glass of an antique display cabinet. The pink fabric is a jarring contrast against the room's opulence—the smell of beeswax and old money, the chandeliers scattering fractured light over polished mahogany.
This place reeks of power. Of control.
Tonight, it all crumbles.
I set up the camera, adjusting the angle to frame Robert perfectly.
The irony isn't lost on me. How many times has he recorded his victims? How many times has he documented their fear for his twisted pleasure? Now, the lens will capture his terror. His confession. His final moments.
Poetic justice.
He whimpers, his voice raw with fear.
"You're going to confess," I demand, my voice deepened and distorted through the modulator. "Every crime. Every victim. I want to hear you say it. All of it."
Robert's jaw tightens. A flicker of defiance lights up in his eyes.
"Why would I do that?" he spits, trying to sound strong, but the tremor in his body betrays him.
I pull out my knife, letting the blade catch the light.
"Because, Robert," I purr, though the voice modulator steals the smoothness of my tone, "I think you'll prefer the ending if you do."
