My body is heavy, as if it has not quite registered that she is no longer here. The wall between us does nothing to loosen the tension locked into my muscles.
I roll onto my side and press my palm into the mattress, but it doesn’t help. The faint trace of her still clings to my skin, subtle but persistent, enough to drag my thoughts back where they do not belong.
That reaction alone irritates me.
I glance at my hurt hand, at the soiled bandage, remembering the heat of her skin, the way she met my gaze without flinching. It’s all wrong.
I take off the wrap and try to put her and what we did out of my mind. My thoughts fade back into something manageable, filed where they belong. Not gone, just contained.
That will have to be enough.
I throw off the covers and force myself upright while fighting the urge to give in to the memory, to let it linger.
This isn’t me. I don’t get tangled up in emotions. She’sa means to manipulate and punish her father, nothing more. That’s what I need to keep telling myself.
With a low curse under my breath, I head for the bathroom. Distance did not work. Sleep did not work. I need this out of my system before it bleeds into the rest of the day.
Steam fills the shower as the water heats. I step under it and let the spray hit hard, scalding enough to demand my attention. It helps, briefly.
It doesn’t last.
My body reacts anyway, tension coiling where I do not want it, a reminder that last night is not done with me yet. That irritates me more than the desire itself.
I brace my injured hand against the tile out of the spray and force my breathing steady, jaw clenched. I wrap my left hand around my engorged cock and pull.
This is not about her. It is about control.
My strokes become faster, more urgent, my grip tightening as I chase the release that's been building since the moment I first laid eyes on her.
I can hear the harsh rasp of my own breath, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the tile walls. My muscles tense and my body coils like a spring as I pound into my fist.
The pressure mounts and my balls tighten, and with a guttural growl, I come hard, forcing release the same way I force everything else. Hard. Fast. Detached. When it passes, the tension is still there, just quieter.
That is the problem.
For a moment, I can do nothing but pant, my body shaking. The water washes away the evidence of my need, but the hunger, that primal, desperate hunger, remains. It’s a deep ache that I know won't be satisfied until I have her again.
I shut my eyes and draw a slow breath, trying to pullmyself back into alignment. The image of her beneath me lingers longer than it should, persistent in a way I don’t like.
The lines blurred last night. Fuck.
I scrub my hands and arms under the hot spray, methodical, thorough, until my skin stings. The water does its job. It strips away the worst of it, even if it does not erase the memory entirely.
When I shut off the water, I stand there longer than necessary, letting the heat fade.
As I step out and reach for a towel, my shoulders tighten. My thoughts return where they belong. To the family. To the instability spreading since my father’s death. To the alliances I am still testing and the ones already fraying.
There is no margin for distraction.
What happened with Coco complicates things. I recognize that without indulging it. Crossing that line, even on my terms, risks clouding judgment I cannot afford to lose.
That will not happen again.
If it means adjusting who guards her, so be it. Vin will not support the change, but Laurent won’t know the difference. This is my call.
I drag the towel through my hair and wipe the fog from the mirror. The man looking back at me is steady enough. Tired, but focused.
That is all I need.
