Page 130 of Bene

Even from his position in the alley across the street, Bene could still see her jaw clench. That fire in her eyes? Clear as day.

Her pain?

Echoing.

“I hate you,” Vanna said loudly. “And that won’t change … not now, not after you make me walk down the aisle, and not after you force me into your bed to act as the easy hole to stick your dick into. It won’t change. I hate you.”

Yeah, Bene learned all kinds of things.

And it only hurt more.

Mario’s hand struck out, his fingers catching Vanna under her jaw in a tight grip as he forced her head back so that she had to stare up at him. Bene’s hands clenched into tight balls at his sides as he willed himself not to move.

He shouldn’t even be here.

Shouldn’t see this happening.

He shouldn’t care.

This only made a complicated situation even more complex. He had so much shit he needed to say to that woman—some of them would hurt her, and others were simply the truth that needed to be said. The phone in his pocket, with her text that said I’m sorry constantly mocked him because yeah, he knew she was. He still didn’t know if it changed anything, though.

But this?

Knowing what he did?

Seeing her with him?

Well, that changed everything.

Bene still didn’t know what it might mean. He did know that whatever it meant, he wouldn’t try to figure it out over random texts that he couldn’t even answer back. And he couldn’t have that woman at all if he couldn’t get back the things she’d helped to take from him.

So, where did that leave this?

And them?

A mess.

That’s where.

“And yet,” he heard the man tell Vanna while he squeezed his eyes shut, “even if you hate me, you’ll still be mine to do with whatever I please. So, who’s really winning here? You should make this easier on yourself, Vanna, and give me what I—”

“I’ll never be yours.”

No.

Because she was Bene’s.

Fuck his whole life.

There were several things Vanna didn’t want to do.

She didn’t want to be getting married today. Not to mention in a church that wasn’t the one her father used to take her to every Sunday morning. She didn’t want to wear a dress that looked more like something straight out of a princess movie instead of something more suited to her style. She didn’t want to be promising her life to a man she could never love when she still hadn’t even been able to properly apologize to the one who still owned her fucked up, broken heart.

And what she really didn’t want to do?

Be bent over the toilet in her private suite, puking into the porcelain bowl while a pregnancy test on the counter told a truth she had refused to admit until now. Somehow, she managed to pull the many layers of her chiffon gown away from the toilet before her small breakfast came rising in her throat.

A feat of fate, she was sure.