Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3) - Lana Sky (top romance novels .TXT) 📗

packs the full force she held back just seconds ago, knocking me off balance. Impulsively, I reach for her, snagging a fistful of golden hair. I pull until she’s forced to face me, her head back, chin in the air.

Despite the awkward position, she continues to fight, kicking, punching any part of me she can reach. Anger in her is always easy to read, but that term doesn’t even begin to describe the emotion ripping through her now. She’s not insulted, oh no…

I’ve hurt her again. More specifically, she thinks I’m wrong.

“You didn’t love me. You didn’t.”

Her eyes flash, challenging that point, but this is a battle she won’t win.

“Real love is like nothing you’ve ever felt.”

Though it’s not her fault. Mischa’s kept her sheltered tight. And I…

I broke her trust in the worst way.

“You know, I wish you could shout at me.” I tighten my grip to keep her eyes on mine. “Every word, every curse. I’d let you air it all out. Maybe then…”

What? All would be forgotten? No. My motive is far more selfish than that. I need to hear it—everything she went through so I can tally it up like a cowardly bitch and wring some kind of salvation from the list of grievances. Mischa saved her. She wasn’t raped. She wasn’t beaten. She lived. Therefore…

What I did couldn’t be nearly cruel enough to feed the rage harbored behind these pretty eyes.

“Sorry wouldn’t be enough, would it?” I ask, not expecting a response. Her flared nostrils give me one regardless—Hell no. Still…

A real man would say it and mean it. He’d get on his knees and rip his heart out with his bare hands just to atone, despite knowing that he never could.

“I won’t,” I tell her, stroking that pretty cheek. “I won’t ever say it, and I’ll tell you why. It would never be enough, never.”

I think of Mischa and the hate boiling beneath my skin for what he did to Vincenzo. That fucker won’t get to walk away scot-free. Not if I have any say in it—and she’s the best final word I could ever hope to have. Vengeance triumphs over any guilt.

It has to.

“I say it, and what?” I demand. “You won’t forgive me. You can’t. So, I say it, and all I’d do would be giving you a piece of me. A small, fragile fucking piece. You take that; I’ve got nothing left.” My thumb stills against her artery, registering every frantic beat of her heart. “Would it help if I gave you more reasons to hate me? If I cut you. Scarred you. Abused this body to match the mental toll. Would that fucking be enough?” I can’t stop myself from touching her anyway, grazing the top of that quivering shoulder, then down the length of one arm.

She’s so damn soft, her skin a beautiful canvas ripe for abuse. A million different ways flash through my mind, all of them twisted.

“I could hurt you, principessa,” I say against her skull, pressing her body against mine. Slight and warm, she shudders at my touch, her breaths growing more frantic by the second. “Rip you open. Make you bleed. Is that what you want?”

My fingers crawl down her spine with a mind of their own, finding the divot of her lower back. Then lower to graze the round curve of her ass and the slender valley between both cheeks.

She stiffens, the air escaping her lips in a startled breath. If she’s never had a man in her cunt, then she’s most definitely never had a man back there.

I withdraw far enough to see her face, expecting terror. Damn. Instead, that lip is between her teeth again, a bitten shade of red.

“You would want that,” I deduce, my voice guttural. I swipe my thumb across her cheek, relishing the silky feel. “And that’s all I’m fucking good for. Hurting you.”

To her credit, she doesn’t cringe. Doesn’t fight.

Her response is ten times worse—liquid glistens at the corners of her eyes, spilling down her cheeks without warning.

“I just can’t win,” I rasp more to myself than to her. “I don’t want to. To win would be to admit there’s something here worth claiming, but there isn’t. You mean nothing to me. I mean nothing to you. That’s all there is.”

She grits her teeth, and I assume that’s her unspoken answer—Yes. We’re nothing. Nothing…

Her fist comes for my head, so swiftly I can’t dodge it. The blow lands with a flurry of stars. Then another. She throws herself at me next, and I snatch her waist, pulling her with me as I stagger back against the wall. For a moment, I let her fight—and she does viciously. Punching. Kicking. The thud of every impact serves as the only audible sound she can make. But, for the life of me, I can’t feel a damn thing.

Not until I see her face. The pain there. The raw, pulsing frustration—a feeling few in the world can understand. Internal pressure like a bull in a pen, pacing, and pacing, hunting for a way out. But there isn’t one. All it can do is just charge the barrier keeping it contained with a reckless hunger for freedom.

I grit my teeth, feeling something in me give way for just a second…

But long enough for her to witness whatever it is. She goes rigid, her fists still balled. When she lunges a second time, I throw my hands out—but not in defense.

She goes limp, and I’m the only surface keeping her upright. Not by choice. It’s pain. The kind of pain you feel so deeply you go numb in the face of it. There’s no putting into words how it feels or what you need. You just scream beneath the onslaught.

But she can’t. For once, I’m not eager to look at her. Fuck. I stave off the inevitable until I have no choice. Craning my neck, I see her, cheeks red, painted wet with tears, her mouth open and gaping at the air.

A part