Chapter 140: His Rage

Collins’s POV

Jenny’s screams still echoed in my ears as I stood over her, the hot iron in my hand. Her face was a mess, one cheek seared raw from the first burn, her eyes wide with terror as she realized I wasn’t bluffing. “I’ll talk!” she’d shrieked, her voice cracking, the manic laughter gone, replaced by raw desperation. Now, she spilled everything, her words falling out in a frantic rush. “Richard… he said he’d use Amelia to gain favor,” she gasped, blood and tears mixing on her swollen face. “He’s taking her to a hotel, a gift for some big shot. He’s sure the guy will want her. He’s planning to film it—Amelia and this man—to make you hate her, Collins. To ruin her and get his leverage. That’s all I know, I swear!”

Richard—my own uncle, a man I’d once trusted—had stooped to this? Using Amelia as a pawn, a gift to some powerful degenerate, all to manipulate me and secure his own gain? And filming it to break us apart? My vision blurred, the room shrinking to Jenny’s pathetic form. The thought of another man touching her, of a camera capturing her pain, made my blood boil with a hatred I’d never known.

I didn’t think. I just acted. With the iron still in my hand, its heat a mirror to my rage,  I pressed it against Jenny’s other cheek with a ruthless indifference that scared even me. Her scream was a piercing wail, her body convulsing as the metal seared her flesh, the smell of burning skin filling the air. I pulled the iron back, my face a mask of cold fury, and leaned close, my voice a chilling whisper. “The first one was for the people you’ve hurt in the past,” I said, my smile sharp, and devoid of mercy. “This is for my beloved woman, who you harmed. I’m not done with you yet.” Her sobs followed me as I dropped the iron and strode out, my men snapping to attention at my command. “Search every hotel in Manhattan,” I barked. “The Regent, room 412, but check them all. Find her. Now!”

The basement door slammed behind me, but Jenny’s screams were nothing compared to the terror gripping my heart. Amelia was out there, and every second I wasted was a second she suffered. I climbed into the SUV, Sean at the wheel, Daniel in the back, coordinating with our teams across the city. My phone buzzed with updates—traffic cams, hotel security feeds, anything we could pull—but it wasn’t enough. I needed her in my arms, safe, and whole.

Three hours of relentless searching felt like a lifetime, each dead end felt like I was living in a nightmare. My men scoured hotels, flashing Amelia’s photo, blocking managers for access to guest lists and cameras. I sat in the command vehicle, my eyes burning as I reviewed footage, my hands clenched to stop their trembling.  The idea of some “big shot” with Amelia—it was unbearable. Who was he? A politician? A rival CEO? Someone Richard thought could sway me with a video of my wife’s suffering? The thought made me want to tear the city apart with my bare hands.

Finally, a break. Sean’s voice crackled through the radio. “Regent Hotel, room 412, confirmed activity. We’ve got a team en route.” My heart lurched, hope and dread colliding. “Go,” I said, my voice a growl. “I’m right behind you.” The SUV roared through Manhattan’s streets, weaving through traffic, my pulse hammering as the hotel’s neon sign came into view. The thought of Amelia inside twisted my gut.

We stormed the lobby, my men fanning out, clearing the desk clerk’s objections. “Room 412,” I snapped, and he handed over a keycard, his hands shaking. I took the stairs, too angry for the elevator, my boots pounding the steps as my team followed. The fourth floor was a maze of dim corridors. My men split up, checking rooms, but I headed straight for 412,  the keycard burning in my hand.

I didn’t knock. I slammed the door open, the wood splintering under my force, and froze, shock rooting me to the spot. Amelia was there, on the bed, her red nightgown clinging to her wet skin, her hair dripping, her face bruised but alive. And holding her—his arms around her shoulders, his face too close—was Felix.  I felt rage, that drowned out everything else. He was part of this—Richard’s “big shot,” the one meant to destroy her, to destroy us.

“You bastard!” I roared, charging across the room. I shoved Felix away from her, my fist connecting with his jaw with a bone crunching blow that sent him staggering. “How dare you touch my wife?” I swung again, my vision red. “How dare you, Felix?” He raised his hands, not fighting back, his eyes wide with shock, but I didn’t care. He’d crossed a line, and I’d kill him for it.

“Collins!” Amelia’s voice broke through, panicked and desperate, cutting through my rage. “Collins, stop!” I turned, my heart lurching at the sight of her—pale, trembling, her eyes wide with fear but fixed on me. She was reaching for me. Felix, didn’t matter. Only she did.

I rushed toward my woman, my arms wrapping around her fragile frame, lifting her from the bed with a tenderness that eased the storm inside me. Her body was warm, damp, and she clung to me, her breaths shallow, her fingers digging into my shirt. “Baby, hold on,” I whispered, my voice breaking as I ran out of the room. “You’ll be fine, okay? Just hold on.”

(Please Check out my other book, “SUBSTITUTE DESIRE”)