Page 78 of Brutal Revenge

My warning comes too late. She hands Matteo the glass, then points to me, announcing I’m the maker of the ghastly tasting juice he’s about to consume.

Matteo dips the glass in thanks, then takes a large gulp.

His face contorts, but he doesn’t spit it out. He swallows—hard—then purses his lips like his tonsils aren’t being rinsed with more salt than the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Confusion clouds his face when Camille silently squeals in delightbefore racing back to her mother’s side to monitor Matteo’s return to me.

He flips Camille’s chair around, then straddles it backward, his face still contorted.

“You don’t have to drink that.” I attempt to snatch the glass from his hand. “It’s a little sour. I think the oranges were old.”

He shrugs, then, to my horror, drinks the rest.

“Ready to head out?” he asks, voice husky from the rough abrasion of salt.

Too shocked to speak, I nod.

He passed the only test my mother requires to grant a man my hand in marriage.

A mix of disappointment and relief twists inside me when his steps don’t veer us toward the stairwell leading to our room. I enjoy spending time with him. Too much for a woman using him to make another man jealous. But when we’re alone, I forget the reason I’m in Sicily.

Only a little over a week remains before I can become whoever I want to be.

I just really hope Matteo can wait that long.

Chapter 22

Matteo

The ride into town is just what I need to keep my head from spiraling. Azra holds on to me the entire way, her arms tightly wrapped around my waist, and her cheek pressed against my shoulder blade. I shouldn’t like how well her body fits against mine, but I do. More than I should.

When I pull up outside a gym, Azra’s head pops off my back, and she glances around, confused.

“You brought me to a gymnasium?”

I kill the engine and throw down the kickstand on my bike. “Yeah.”

I’ve never brought anyone here.

Hold on. That’s a lie. I’ve brought plenty of women here. But not on the back of my bike or to personally teach.

After storing her helmet on my bike’s seat, I open the single glass door and gesture for Azra to enter first. The gym is quiet at this hour. A few women stretch near the dressing rooms, and a couple of trainers prep equipment. These walls, unlike those at the gym at home, feature posters about boundaries, empowerment, and trauma recovery.

I can see the questions brewing in Azra’s head, but I don’t tell her what this place is really about. It’s unnecessary for her to know that thewomen here have survived things that make my world look tame, and that I fund this place because I’ve seen too many women broken by men exactly like me.

She also doesn’t need to know that I’m terrified she’ll end up as one of them.

I head to the front desk and request a workout set in Azra’s size. She gasps, surprised I didn’t need to ask her size to get it right. I know it because I studied every inch of her curves last night, both in reality and in my dreams.

When I hand her the two-piece gym attire, she blinks. “How did you?—?”

“Get changed,” I interrupt, not wanting to open that can of worms just yet. “Then meet me on the mats.”

She stares at me as if I’m a magician performing a trick, then vanishes into the changing room. While she’s gone, I remove my shirt and stretch out my shoulders to loosen the tension that has coiled there since last night.

I didn’t sleep. Could you blame me? The girl from my cock’s dreams was lying semi-naked next to me, moaning my name in her sleep.

Realizing how close I came to crossing a line I can’t uncross will keep me awake for days to come. I want to believe I’d never step out of line with Azra like that, but don’t ask me to swear on my mother’s grave. This woman makes me so reckless I’m having a hard time recognizing myself.