Still in that sterile room.
Still watched.
Still filmed.
But something’s changed.
She’s not in the corner anymore.
She’s on the mattress.
Lying still.
Breathing heavy.
And he’s there.
N.
Wearing my face.
Kneeling between her legs.
His hands on her thighs—possessive, worshipful, familiar.
Too familiar.
My throat burns as I force myself not to blink.
Because the worst part?
She’s letting him.
Her eyes flutter closed.
Her breath catches—just like it does for me.
He leans down, whispering something I can’t hear.
She nods.
She fucking nods.
Then he kisses her.
Slow. Deep.
Exactly the way I kissed her the first time I told her she was mine.
His mouth trails down her neck. Her chest.
His hands cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she arches.
She moans.
“Damien…”
My name.
