Page 123 of Brutal Revenge

“I think that’s the point of the ritual. I’m meant to bleed.”

He grunts, unappreciative of my humor. It’s a pity his cock announces an opposing viewpoint. He hardens enough for my pulse to ascend to my vagina, and to make me forget we’re being eyeballed like freaks in a circus tent.

“Ready?”

I nod. With his body shielding me and blocking the view of the men, he thrusts into me with one ardent thrust.

Fuck.

Pain blisters through me as tears sting my eyes.

This hurts way more than I imagined.

It burns—badly.

“Oww…”

“Look at me,” Matteo repeats, voice thick with anarchy.

I do because if I don’t distract my eyes from how drenched they are, my tears will spill over.

It dawns on me that I’m already crying when Matteo wipes away my tears with the back of his fingers with such tenderness that I barely perceive his touch.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. The bad part is over.”

I only wish that were true.

“We need proof that penetration has occurred,” a snarky voice from behind says. “Don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t see shit.”

A collective hum of agreement fills the room, and Matteo’s jaw tics.

“You need proof?” He pulls out more carefully than his anger should allow. Then he clears a smear of my virginal blood off his cock with the lace-trimmed cloth under my ass and tosses it at the closest man’s feet. “Now get the fuck out before I prioritize removing your intestines via your fucking nose over making sure my wife is okay.”

Feet scramble in all directions for a fleeting instant before the door to our suite closes, and I can finally breathe through the pain without an audience.

Chapter 39

Matteo

The door of the honeymoon suite clicks shut, and my fist lands into the closest wall.

Every man who stood in this room and watched me claim Azra’s virginity will soon gargle on their blood. I’ll take my time with the man who squashed his gun against her temple, before using his limbs to fuck over the man who sniffed the bloodied cloth before he exited the room, clutching it like a trophy.

I want them dead. Every one of them. But I can’t move yet. As much as my head screams for revenge, my heart knows I’m needed here more. Azra needs me, and I refuse to leave her side until I know, without doubt, that this ritual wasn’t the commencement of Hattie’s downfall.

It’s easy to see why I’m suspicious. Antonio is a jerk. He wouldn’t have hidden his wife from men rubbing their cocks through their pants. He would have paraded her for the wolves; rituals like this might have sparked his family’s fascination with the gang-rape trade.

After schooling my expression, I turn to face the bed. Azra braces her back against the headboard. Her eyes are unfocused, and she curvesher knees inward as if she’s aware her father stripped the one thing that’s meant to be sacred.

Although I want to place all the blame for her pained expression on him, I can’t.

I hurt her—both physically and emotionally.

That kills me more than anything.

I should have fought harder, but even the cockiest man in the room knows the odds of her getting out of that battle unscathed were low to nonexistent.

Needing to fix my mistakes, I walk to the bedside table, grab the small bottles of oils the hotel must have left, and then enter the bathroom.