Page 106 of I'm sorry, Princess
Something is off.
I should be enjoying this, watching the Beaumont family fall apart piece by piece. I should be relishing in the thought of her suffering just as much as the rest of them. That was the plan, wasn’t it? Make her father bleed, make him lose everything, watch as his daughter, the perfect, golden girl, crumbles with him.
But the way she felt in my arms tonight, the way her soft skin burned under my touch, the way her eyes darkened when she saw me with Ashley, fuck. Maybe I don’t need to make her suffer. Maybe I just needto make him suffer.
Something happened to her tonight. And I need to know who did it.
Though, if I have to bet?
I already know.
I had Andres drive the girls home, and of course, the bastard moaned about it like a little bitch. Spent twenty minutes ranting that he’s not my personal fucking driver and that he has “better things to do.” I let him talk. Let him vent all the way until he realized he didn’t have a fucking choice.
He texted me after dropping Sienna off. But when it came to Serena?
She never made it home.
Because I gave Andres different instructions.
I wanted her with me tonight.
I needed her with me.
Watching her leave that party was fucking torture. My blood burned for her, my dick painfully hard in my suit the second I had her pressed against me on that dancefloor. But it wasn’t just that.
I wanted her.
I wanted to wipe that sadness from her eyes. I wanted to fucking erase the people who put it there.
And fuck me, I’m a man of my word.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
“Look at me.” She doesn’t.
Her entire body stiffens, her breathing uneven, her gaze darting anywhere but mine. She knows what I see. She knows I won’t fucking let this go.
I grip her chin, not rough, but enough to make her look at me. And when she finally does, I swear something in me fucking snaps.
Her big brown eyes, glossy, filled with unshed tears, are pleading with me, but not in the way I want. Not in theway that makes my cock twitch when she begs. This? This is pain.
And then I see it.
A fucking bruise.
Barely hidden under layers of makeup, but my fingers grazing her cheek smudge just enough of it away to expose the truth. It’s faint, but it’s there. Someone hit her. Someone put their hands on her.
I breathe in slowly, but it does nothing to cool the fire licking up my spine. My jaw clenches so hard I swear I feel my molars crack. Who the fuck did this?
“Who?” My voice is low, deadly, the kind that sends most men pissing themselves in fear.
She flinches at the question, and fuck, I hate that. Hate that she’s afraid. Hate that I can’t fix it right now. Hate that the person who did this is still breathing.
I brush my thumb over the bruise gently, but she still winces. The pain is still fresh. My ears start ringing, my vision blurs at the edges, and the only thing keeping me from breaking something is the fact that she’s right in front of me. But whoever did this? They’re already dead. They just don’t fucking know it yet.
“Tell me, princess,” I say, my voice tight, restrained. Barely controlled fury. I wipe away the tears falling down her cheeks, but they keep coming. “Who did this?”
I’m already picturing it. Already planning.
