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."
