A new tenderness erupts. It runs right to my core. I gasp in his mouth.
His hand slides down my spine, stopping at the small of my back, splaying wide as he holds me in place. He murmurs, "Easy," though he doesn't stop kissing me.
I slide my fingers through his hair, gripping it tight.
His stubble faintly scrapes along my chin. His teeth nip my lower lip in a quick, wicked tug. Then he soothes the sting with a slow lick.
I moan.
He swallows the sound, kissing me harder for a few seconds. His hand slides along my side, his thumb brushing the outer curve of my breast.
My nipples tighten instantly. A needy little sound escapes me, humiliatingly desperate.
His breath stutters.
For a heartbeat, his grip at my waist tightens, his hips press forward, and his tongue thrusts into my mouth with a raw hunger that steals all my thoughts. Sparks race down my spine. I arch against him, chasing friction, wanting more.
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 inmy ears starts again, the echo of the crowd, the chanting, the roar of the arena. Then the whispers take over.
Slut.
Whore.
Marked.
