Page 151 of Off the Grid

All I can feel is a rage so intense I never knew existed.

And all I focus on is making him pay for what he did to her.

I’m on him in a second. My fists flying, his face crunching against them.

Then I’m straddling him. Each punch a little piece of redemption for Camilla.

For hurting her.

For assaulting her.

For making her doubt the woman she is and the choices she made.

With thoughts of this man—this gutless wanker—hurting Camilla. Assaulting her.

I don’t hear the shouts.

I buck the hands off me that are trying to pull me off.

I see him hurting her.

I hear her crying for him to stop.

I see him spitting on her.

I hear him telling her she’s a cunt.

I’m hauled off him at some point. There’s blood. Everywhere. On my hands. On his face. On the asphalt. On my race suit.

And cameras.

They’re fucking everywhere right along with the spectators in the stands who have stopped to watch the show.

I don’t care. I can’t see through the rage. I can’t see through anything.

Cold-fish cunt repeats in my head.

All I see is the smug fucking smirk on the prat’s lips.

All I feel is the crunch of his cheek beneath my knuckles.

Satisfying.

Necessary.

When I look up from everything, I see Camilla standing there. Tears are streaming down her face. Her body is pulled within itself. Her arms are crossed over her chest as if she’s protecting herself from him.

It has to be from him, right?

Not from me?

She knows I wouldn’t hurt her, doesn’t she?

I try to meet her eyes. I try to tell her I’m sorry. I’m yanked backward by two crew members before I can relay any of it.

So I do the only thing I can. I mouth to her, “He can’t hurt you again,” seconds before I’m pushed into the garage by my team.

And right into the waiting office of Carlo Moretti.