Page 104 of Brutal Revenge

He’s carrying a gun but is too scared to use it.

What more confirmation do I need than that?

When Matteo guides me into the manager’s office, I don’t fight him. I don’t have it in me. Besides, denying this man’s advances is pointless. Even when he treated me like a whore, I stared at him as if he hung the moon and stars.

The second the door shuts behind us, the air shifts.

Matteo is drunk. And angry. Really angry.

So am I.

He smells of liquor and cheap perfume, and the combination twists my jealousy into an ugly disease I’ll never beat.

“Have you drunk so much that you don’t care which brunette you pluck off the dance floor? Any will do, as long as you get what you want, right?”

While snickering at the jealousy I plan to blame on the remnants of whatever Isabella slipped me, Matteo rakes his eyes over my body. His gaze is wild and unfocused but burning with something I refuse to name.

“Did he touch you?” he demands, voice rough. “Is that why he brought the wedding forward? Because he doesn’t want anyone to learn that you broke the purity clause earlier than the contract states?”

The aggression in his tone should scare me. It doesn’t. It isn’t the kind that makes me feel unsafe. It makes me feel wanted.

That’s worse.

So much worse.

I start to speak, but he steps closer, too close, and the room spins with the effects of the drugs and the music still echoing in my bones.

And him.

Matteo drags his fingers through his hair as if a firm tug will outrun his thoughts. “Answer me, Azra. Did he fucking touch you?”

Forever stubborn, I fold my arms under my chest. “I don’t have to answer to you.”

Hand halfway through his hair, he looks at me. Truly looks.

“Wanna bet?”

Heat flashes between us as he seizes my wrist and yanks me toward him. It takes a moment, but I slip out of his grip like I did on the gym’smat earlier this week, then ram my elbow into his ribs and throw my fist into his face.

He grunts, but my blows don’t keep him down for long. This time, he tugs me back until his torso warms my back and his cock digs into my ass.

I throw back my head as taught, but Matteo dodges it.

“Try again,micina.”

His nickname sparks an idea in my head. I spear my nails into his arms, drawing blood.

My aggression only hardens him further. He braces his cock against the seam of my ass, and it swells far above the two dimples in my lower back.

“Sick fuck,” I mutter, my voice a mix of awe and disgust.

“So fucking sick,” Matteo agrees, his tone changing. It doesn’t sound as angry as it once did. It’s more subdued.

When he crowds me against the desk, I push up on my toes. It’s unclear whether I am attempting to kick him in the shins or realign our crotches. I’d say it’s a bit of both.

He arches me over the desk and pins my hands above my head with one hand before the other moves to the hem of my dress. It’s one of the ones he bought for me, so of course the hem is indecent.

Goose bumps follow the trek of his hand when he drags it from behind my knees to high on my thigh, but I still try to fight.