Page 130 of The Colour of Revenge
"Reflect on your behaviour," he commands with a dismissive wave before turning to leave.
The door clicks shut, and only then do I let myself breathe.
My legs give out, and I sink to the cold floor, pressing a hand to my burning cheek. The pain is nothing compared to the war raging inside me.
I hate him. I hate how he plays his games, and it makes me anticipate what's coming next. He hasn't forced himself on me—not yet—but the waiting, the fear of when or if it will happen, it’s its own kind of torture.
I press my palm harder against my bruised skin, welcoming the sting.
I won't break.
I can't.
I close my eyes and picture Nate. His arms are around me. His voice is steady, anchoring me when the world tilts off its axis.
He's my light. My tether.
And he's out there. Waiting.
"I'll get out of this," I whisper to the empty room, my voice raw but resolute. "I'll get back to him."
And I'll make Lucian and my father regret underestimating the girl they thought they could break.
34
Hollow Shell Of The Girl I Once Was
Hypothetical Question: What’s the most satisfying way to make someone feel like they’ve lost everything before you take them out? I’m talking full emotional destruction, then leaving them broken beforefinallyending it.
Carina
"Naomi!"
Lucian's voice slices through the house like a blade, sharp and demanding. The kind of voice that promises consequences.
My stomach knots, but I force myself to move. Hesitation is weakness, and weakness is punished. The polished wood beneath my heel’s creaks with each step down the grand staircase, my descent slow and deliberate. I am not defiant or submissive; I am just controlled.
His home is much like my fathers, exuberant and obnoxious. A distasteful beige covers the walls, adorned with portraits—likely of previous Moretti men.
Lucian waits at the bottom, encased in his usual black suit, pristine and powerful. The suit isn't clothing—it's armour, a declaration of dominance. His gaze sweeps over me, dissecting every inch, hunting for flaws. When he gives a single curt nod, approval flickers across his features.
Like I should be grateful.
"Follow."
He turns without waiting.
The sleek black car outside makes my pulse stutter. My father sits in the backseat, his face impassive as ever.
A whisper of hope dares to bloom.
Out. They're letting me out.
It makes sense now, why Lucian has kept his abuse to areas that can be easily covered by my clothes. He stopped hitting my face two weeks ago so now it’s no longer covered in bruising and red marks from his hand slapping my cheek.
The idea of escape whispers through me, hope curls in my stomach. My pulse quickens, and I feel the faintest curl of a smile try to take shape.
The ride is silent, thick with unspoken threats. Lucian's presence is oppressive, a storm cloud beside me. My father stares out the window, his indifference grating against my skin.
