Whatever vitriol she has left is choked down by my fingers as I tighten them around her neck. I'm a raging bull, and any softness I may have had for her has abandoned me in the face of this fresh betrayal. When I look at her right now, the only thing I can feel is disgust.

Disgust that I could ever care for a Moreno. That I would ever think she could be loyal. That she wouldn't have taken every opportunity to stab me in the back and exploit me like she's just proven she can.

"You don't deserve the De La Rosa name," I grit out as she fights for her balance, raking her nails over my hands. "You don't deserve my mark. I should cut it out of your skin."

She whimpers and tries again to speak, but her words are suffocated under the weight of my palm. When I finally release her, she's coughing again, but there isn't an ounce of sympathy left for her.

Marco opens the door to the chapel and nods at me. "The fire is out. I'll get someone in here to clean up the mess." He pauses momentarily, his eyes darting to Ivy and narrowing slightly. "But you should know the pictures of your father and brother are ruined."

Ivy sucks in a sharp breath and flinches when I grab her by the hair, hauling her body in front of mine.

"Thank you, Marco."

He turns away, and I force Ivy forward, her knees nearly buckling as she stumbles to put one foot in front of the other.

"What are you doing?" she croaks.

"You want to burn down the memory of my family?" I ask. “It isn’t enough that you’ve already destroyed them?”

“Me?” She tries to turn her head to look at me, and I tighten my grip on her, enforcing her stillness.

"You’re a Moreno, aren’t you?” I sneer. “You’ve just proven it. You may as well have spit on their graves.”

"That wasn't what I was doing," she whispers.

"Lies," I sneer. "That's all that ever pours from your lips. Fucking lies."

When she tries to protest, I squeeze my free hand over her jaw, pinching it shut. "As far as I'm concerned, you don't have a voice anymore."

She shudders against me, tears splashing against my fingers as I march her into the house. When the door slams behind us, I pause in the foyer, squeezing my fingers between the seams of her shirt and tearing them apart. She fights me at every turn as I repeat the process on her leggings, shredding them with my bare hands while she kicks and slaps at me, screaming out a rage she wishes was equal to mine. Her lace underwear and bra are the last to go, and I discard them in a pile onto the floor and force her onto her knees.

"Crawl,” I command, tangling my fist in her hair.