Chapter 11 #2
He tears his mouth from mine. His breath comes out hot and hard.
I blink, dizzy, lips swollen and tingling. The room spins in slow, lazy circles around us. I furrow my brows.
His forehead rests against mine as he drags in a deep breath. Then another. His chest heaves. He mutters, "Fuck. You're dangerous."
The word should sting. It doesn't. It coils inside me with something like pride. Still, I try to capture his lips again, but he leans back, just far enough that I miss.
His fingers tighten at my waist, as if he's holding himself in place by force. He reaches up, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip, his gaze glued to it. Then his expression shifts, hardening with resolve. "You need to rest, Minx."
Heat crashes into cold so fast it stuns me. I repeat, "Rest?"
"You've been through enough for ten lifetimes tonight. Get some sleep so your body can heal," he orders.
My mind seizes on the word, twisting it.
Heal.
The red V throbs on my chest, as if it heard him and agrees. I'm broken, ruined, not fit to be touched. At least not the way I want him to touch me. Nor the way he just did.
I swallow, my throat aching. "You don't have to…pity me."
His jaw flexes. "That's what you think this is?"
I can't meet his eyes. I glance down instead, tugging the silk higher, even though I'm fully covered. The fabric drags over tender, seared flesh, and a sharp sting radiates out as a brutal reminder.
I'm stained.
No man wants a woman who carries the Underworld's graffiti carved into her skin. Men like Brax fuck perfection. They don't claim damaged goods.
Shame turns into a tidal wave, thick and suffocating. I swallow it back and turn, curling onto my side, away from him.
It's a small mercy. He doesn't have to pretend to find me attractive when the ugliest part of me is in full view.
The scarlet letter burns in my chest. I stare at the wall, eyes burning, heart pounding loud enough I'm sure he can hear it. The buzzing in my ears starts again, the echo of the crowd, the chanting, the roar of the arena. Then the whispers take over.
Slut.
Whore.
Marked.
My fingers dig into the pillow. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the tears from spilling again.
The mattress shifts behind me.
I go still, bracing for distance along with the drag of the sheets and the creak of the bed as he gets up and leaves.
Instead, the heat of his body crowds my back again. His chest molds to my spine; his arm slides around my waist. He tugs me flush against him like he's determined to erase even a millimeter of space.
"Brax—" I start, my voice hoarse, then freeze.
His cock pushes firmly against the curve of my ass, thick and pulsing.
Heat flares under my skin, scorching every insecurity trying to claw its way up my throat.
His mouth finds the shell of my ear. He demands, "Stop thinking things that aren't true."
The words punch right through my defenses. My lungs seize, then finally expand. My vision blurs, but this time the tears don't spill. The knot in my chest loosens an inch.
His hand spreads over my stomach, fingers splayed wide but not touching my sensitive skin. He holds me to him like he's claiming me in the only way he can right now. His face buries in my hair, his stubble scraping my neck as he breathes me in.
"I'm not going anywhere," he mutters, half into my hair, half into my skin. "Sleep, Valentina."
My muscles slowly unclench. I let my weight sink back into him, giving in to the steady press of his body.
The arena fades. Whispers get silenced. The only sounds left are his heartbeat thudding against my spine and his breathing evening out, deep and heavy.
I match my inhales to his, letting the rhythm lull me. For the first time since the ritual, my body doesn't feel like an enemy.
Sleep pulls me under before I can fight it. When my eyes blink open again, the room is gray-blue with early morning light seeping through the sides of my curtains.
I turn and stare at the empty, cold sheets.
He left.
Disappointment slams into me so fast it steals my breath. The hollow space where his body should be gapes like a fresh wound. It's stupid. I knew he wouldn't stay forever. Men like him don't linger.
But some pathetic, traitorous part of me thought he'd still be here. Instead, it's just me and my scarlet decor.
A curse slips out under my breath in Italian. I throw the covers off and swing my legs over the edge. I force myself to my feet and shuffle to the bathroom. I flick on the light.
Brightness floods the space, bouncing off marble and mirrors. I squint for a moment, then stare at the red V.
Angry, swollen skin surrounds the mark, the edges still slightly raised and tender. The color is so vivid it almost glows, a searing, violent crimson that refuses to be ignored.
Ugly, my mind hisses.
I step closer to the mirror, fingers lifting before I can stop them. I hover a centimeter away, afraid to touch, but incapable of looking anywhere else.
This is what they wanted.
To put me in my place.
Every morning and every night, I'll be reminded that no matter how powerful I become in the Underworld, no matter how composed I appear in rituals or other tasks, underneath the couture and diamonds, I'm tarnished.
My vision burns.
I need to get over this.
I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall. I mutter to my reflection. "You don't get to win."
The V doesn't care. It just sits there, carved into me, a permanent reminder. My jaw tightens. I finally let my fingertips brush the edge of it. The touch sends a sharp sting through my skin, but I don't pull back. I trace the angle slowly, forcing myself to feel every centimeter.
If this is my reality now, I have to own it even if it kills me.
"Hotter than Wonder Woman," Brax's deep voice rumbles from the doorway.
I jump, jerking my hand away from my chest as my gaze snaps to his reflection behind me. "What are you doing here?"
His lips twitch. His eyes drift over my body. His voice grows lower. "Trying to decide if I like your ass or your tits better."
A laugh flies out of me.
He steps forward, kisses my forehead, and states, "I made breakfast. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Let's go eat, Minx."