Page 63 of The Colour of Revenge
Queen Carina:Fuck.
Daddy Death:I'm picking you up at 8.
Queen Carina:I won't answer.
Pulling up to Carina's place, I hesitate for half a second before stepping out.
She's been through hell. She built herself from the ground up. And for some reason, she's letting me in.
That shouldn't scare me.
But it does.
The other night, when she told me some of what she’s been through, it took everything in me to stay calm. I wanted to go on a murderous rampage. And, to be fair, I did.
My list is significantly shorter now, thanks to my anger-fuelled killing spree this week. There’s nothing quite so cathartic as a little light murder.
But what she told me was just the surface, and even that was more than enough. I don’t think I’m ready to hear the full story—not without flying off the handle and ruining her carefully planned revenge by killing them all myself.
I knock on her door and wait, suddenly hyper aware of how I'm standing. Why the fuck am I nervous? It's just Carina.
Except it isn't just Carina.
It's our first real date—real in the way that says,"Hi, I'm definitely into you and I'm not just here to help you murder people."
It’s exciting and terrifying.
Mostly terrifying.
The door swings open, and whatever functioning brain cells I had left promptly exit the chat.
Carina stands there, looking like she stepped out of some high-fashion fever dream designed to ruin me. The black dress clings to her curves like a death grip, the hem teasing at the edge of indecency. Her legs—long, toned, and frankly unfair—make me think she could bankrupt a man just by existing. And that pastel pink hair? It's ridiculous. She has no right to look this effortlessly perfect.
For a second, I almost convince myself this is the first time I'm seen her without any pink in her outfit. Then I spot the hot pink heels. A slow smile tugs at my lips. Predictable.
Her icy blue eyes lock onto mine, and her smoky eyeliner makes them sharper and deadlier. I can't tell if I want to kiss her or bow down and say,Yes, my queen.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.I officially have the IQ of a toaster.
"Are you just going to stand there staring at me all night?" she teases, one brow arching in amusement.
I clear my throat, dragging my gaze back to her face—not the dangerously high hem of her dress. "It's a hell of a view."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't bother hiding her smirk. "You clean up pretty well yourself."
I spent two hours debating whether my shirt was the right balance of casual-but-not-too-casual. Now, standing in front of her, I realise it didn't matter. She could appear in a bin bag and still look like she owned the place.
Before I can say something clever—because I swear, I usually have a game—she presses her palms against my chest and shoves me backwards down the driveway. It's playful, effortless, and just cocky enough to make my pulse spike.
I shake my head, snapping out of whatever spell she's cast over me.Get it together, Nate.
She moves toward the car, but I beat her to the door, pulling the handle open. She eyes me for a second before slipping inside with an easy grace. No protest. No sarcastic remarks. Interesting.
London traffic is, as always, a cosmic joke at my expense. The universe's way of saying,"You thought you'd get there on time? That’s cute."
What should've been a ten-minute drive turns into thirty, and I swear I see my life flash before my eyes at least twice. But hey, no way was I letting Carina take the tube tonight.
Carina, meanwhile, is completely unbothered. She lounges in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through her phone like she's above traffic laws.
