Tristan’s eyes drop to my neck, where the high collar hides the claiming marks. “Let me take a look,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble that makes that thing in my stomach flutter.
“What? No. Not here,” I hiss, glancing around. Apart from the hovering omegas, the gallery is relatively empty, but still. “This is my workplace.”
“Just a quick look,” he persists. “I want to make sure they’re healing properly.”
Before I can protest further, I feel a wave of dizziness. The gallery suddenly feels too hot, too bright, too everything.
“Are you okay?” Tristan asks, his hand coming to rest on my arm.
“I need some air,” I say abruptly. “Excuse me.”
I don’t wait for his response. I just turn and walk as quickly as dignity allows toward the staff bathroom at the back of the gallery. Once inside, I shut the door and lean against it, breathing hard.
The bathroom is small. A single stall with a sink and mirror. I splash cold water on my face, careful not to wet my turtleneck. The cool liquid is a momentary relief, but the burning in my neck persists.
Reluctantly, I pull down the collar of my turtleneck to examine the marks. What I see makes me gasp.
They haven’t faded. If anything, they’re worse.
The angry, reddish inflammation from yesterday has deepened, settling into a stark, bruised-purple color at the edges. The individual impressions of their teeth are now shockingly clear.Like a permanent dental record of their possession branded into my skin.
“What the hell?” I whisper, touching one of the marks gingerly. It’s warm but doesn’t hurt. If anything, the touch sends a pleasant tingle through my body.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump.
“Zoe?” Tristan’s voice is low and concerned. “Everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” I call back, hastily pulling my turtleneck back into place. “Just needed a minute.”
“You left pretty suddenly,” he says through the door. “I got worried.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, but my voice sounds shaky even to my own ears.
There’s a pause, then: “Can I come in?”
“It’s a single stall bathroom, Tristan.”
“I know. Please? Just for a minute.”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But my hand is already reaching for the lock, turning it before my brain can override the impulse.
Tristan slips inside, closing the door behind him. The small space immediately feels smaller, filled with his presence, his scent.
“You’re not okay,” he says, his eyes scanning my face. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, but my hand drifts unconsciously to my neck.
His gaze follows the movement, understanding dawning. “The marks? Are they bothering you?”
“They’re... different,” I admit. “Changed.”
“Can I see?”
I should say no. I should push him out the door and tell him to leave me alone. But when his eyes flick to my neck, something inside me softens. He doesn’t look smug or possessive. He looks... concerned. Like he needs to know I’m okay. Like heneeds to see me. And that need is so disarming, I find myself nodding before I can think better of it.
The moment he takes a look, Tristan’s sharp intake of breath is audible in the small space. “They’re... very red,” he says, a frown deepening his brow. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“So it’s not normal?” I ask, hating the note of vulnerability in my voice.
