Page 5 of The Colour of Revenge
Not that he’ll be alive to remember.
Her breath hitches as she applies pressure, drawing another shallow cut across his skin. Her hand is steady. Too steady.
A slow, satisfied smile touches her lips.
“There you go,” I murmur, voice hushed in approval. “Feel it? The control… the power?”
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t have to.
The glimmer in her eyes says it all.
She’s enjoying this as much as I am.
Carina
I watch as Nate brings out one of his own knives, the cool metal gleaming under the faint light streaming through the broken window.
I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here. I had planned to do this quickly—get in and get out.
But I can’t help the satisfaction coursing through me as I press the blade back into Peter’s skin, this time just over his heart. It thumps so wildly I can hear it. It’s exhilarating.
Peter Winslow was the first man to defile my body—but he wasn’t the last. It’s taken me months to track him down. Just as many to work up the courage needed to get back into the country.
My father sold me to Peter when I was just thirteen years old. The dirty pervert loved being the one to ‘break me in’, as he put it. My knife digs in a little too deep as I shiver with disgust at the thoughts of what this man did to me. He’s not even the worst of them.
The first man to betray me was my father. He sold me, his only daughter, for money and power. The second was Gareth, his right-hand man—the man I trusted, the man who promised to protect me. I saw him as more of a father than the one I share blood with. And yet, he was the one who drove me to Peter.
Gareth’s betrayal hurt more than my father’s. My father, I could hate easily; he was never a good man. But Gareth? He wore his kindness like a mask, one I fell for completely.
After Peter, there was Robert. He was crueller, more calculated. Where Peter preferred to break me down with fear, Robert used control, stripping away every shred of autonomy I had left.
Then there was Simon, he loved to hear me scream. He revelled in knowing that each time he took from me it was worse than the last. My compliance only served to anger him, to make him find new ways to make it hurt.
Michael came next, a man who thrived on manipulation. He would be kind one minute, then remind me the next of exactly why I should never let my guard down. I lived in a constant state of paranoia, wondering which version of him I’d get that day.
And finally, there was Edward. Edward liked to think of himself as a saviour, acting like he did me a favour by buying me. He was the last man to do so before I managed to escape.
Seven men in total, including my father. Seven monsters who shaped the person I’ve become.
“Careful, Princess. Savour it,” Nate murmurs, his voice thick with amusement as his knife slides effortlessly through Peter’s flesh. He pauses, letting the blade linger before setting it down and using his hands to tear at the tendons, slowly, methodically, one by one.
Savour it.
The words echo in my mind, the concept sinking in with a dark, unsettling thrill.
It should repulse me—watching this man rip into a living creature’s body with nothing but raw strength and precision. The sound of tearing flesh should turn my stomach. But somehow, Nate makes it look almost sensual. The way his fingers dig into the tissue, how he moves with such care, as if he really is savouring the moment, extracting each piece with a practiced, almost tender touch.
I thought I was going to have to kill two men tonight when he first announced himself, but instead he’s… helping me. He’s showing me how to take back the control I desperately lost while within this man’s clutches.
As Nate continues to tear into Peter’s flesh with an almost disturbing elegance, I can’t help but watch him. The blood, the brutality—it should disgust me. But all I can focus on is him.
His face is lit by the soft light, sharp features catching my attention in ways I can’t ignore. His jawline is sculpted, the edges harsh and masculine, stubble traces the curve of his chin, making him look like something dangerous—a man who’s seen too much and doesn’t care. But his eyes... His eyes are what draw me in. They’re brown, almost black really, with an intensity that feels like they’re peeling me open, layer by layer. They gleam with mischief, with something darker, something I can’t quite place, but it’s magnetic. Every flicker of those eyes sends a rush through my body.
It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. But I can’t seem to stop.
His hair, a bit tousled, falls in soft waves around his forehead, the dark strands damp with sweat, glistening slightly under the light. It should make him look dishevelled, but instead, it only adds to the allure. I find myself wanting to reach out and smooth it back, feeling the rough texture between my fingers. His lips curl into that predatory smile, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
