10. Shanay
Ten
Shanay
I wake up sore.
Not just a little.
Deep. Heavy kind of sore.
The kind that lingers in your muscles and between your thighs.
The kind that makes you remember exactly what you did.
My cheeks heat before my eyes are even fully open.
And I’m alone.
The bed smells like him.
Like cedar and sweat and everything we did in the dark.
My heart pounds.
I pull the sheet tighter around me and stare at the ceiling.
I let him…
He had me crying on his tongue. On his big dick.
And then I sucked him off until my throat hurt. And—
“Morning.”
I jolt upright.
Mike’s standing in the doorway, shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder. Hair wet. Beard still damp.
He’s holding a mug of coffee.
“Thought you might be hurting,” he says softly. “Drew you a bath.”
I can’t speak.
I just nod, accept the mug with shaking hands,take a sip, set it on the nightstand, and follow him into the bathroom.
—-
The tub’s already full—steaming and filled with something that smells like eucalyptus.
He hands me a towel and kisses my forehead.
“Let me know if you need help getting in,” he says, voice low. “Last night was… Just let me know.”
That should embarrass me.
It doesn’t.
It makes me ache all over again.
He leaves me alone, and I sink into the water, breath catching at the heat.
My body is his now.
Every inch, marked.
And I don’t know what that means.
But I don’t hate it.
—-
By the time I’m dry and dressed in one of his flannels, the kitchen smells like breakfast.
Real breakfast.
He’s at the stove standing in front of a spread of eggs, bacon, and biscuits.
A little bowl of jam on the side.
“You didn’t have to—” I start.
He shrugs. “I know.”
We eat in silence, too hungry and too full of thoughts to say much.
But halfway through my coffee, Mike reaches across the table and brushes his thumb over my cheek.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Just…”
“Processing.”
“Yeah.”
His hand lingers.
Warm. Steady.
And I think—maybe this is it. Maybe we’re okay. Maybe this messy, chaotic, delicious thing between us is real.
Then he says, “we’ll stop by your place after breakfast.”
I blink. “Why?”
“So you can grab your things.”
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“You’re staying here now.”
He says it casually.
Like it’s already decided.
Like he just told me the weather.
I set my fork down slowly. “I didn’t agree to that.”
He frowns. “You need to be here. I’ve got the space. It’s safer. Easier.”
“And I don’t get a say?”
He stands. Not angry. Just firm.
“You’re mine, Shanay. This is me taking care of you.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I shouldn’t have to.”
That does it.
I stand too—chair scraping back, voice rising.
“I’m not one of your fixer ups, Mike Costa. And I’m sure as hell not a piece of furniture you can move as you want.”
“You’re not,” he growls. “You’re mine.”
“You keep saying that like it explains everything.”
“Because it does.”
He’s angry now. Face hard. Eyes wild.
“I would burn this whole fucking town down to keep you safe,” he snaps. “The whole world. You think this is about control? This is about me not letting anything near you. Ever.”
“And what about what I want?”
His jaw flexes. “What do you want?”
“I want to be part of the decision-making!” I shout. “I want to feel like I’m choosing this—not being claimed like I’m property!”
Silence.
Thick and awful.
He doesn’t move.
I grab my coat. My phone. My keys.
He doesn’t stop me.
But when I glance back, he’s staring at the table like I betrayed him.
And I don’t know if I want to cry or turn around or run straight into his arms.
So I do the only thing I can.
I leave.