And my neck?—
I leaned closer, turning my head.
No bruises. No marks.
Just the faintest redness at the hollow of my throat, like my skin remembered pressure that hadn’t left proof.
My body had proof, though.
I rinsed my face with cold water and tried to pretend the chill could reset me.
It didn’t.
When I stepped back into the bedroom, there was clothing laid out on the chair by the fireplace.
Not mine.
A black dress—simple, fitted, the kind you could wear onstage and in a room full of money without anyone daring to call you unprofessional. Beside it, a cream cashmere coat and a pair of sleek boots.
And folded on top, like an afterthought meant to make me blush:
Ivory lingerie.
Delicate. Expensive. The kind of thing you didn’t buy for yourself unless you wanted to feel like a secret.
My stomach dropped.
A note sat beside it. Not on stationery. Not signed.
Just a single line, written in a steady hand:
Wear it. Hair down. No jewelry.
My pulse kicked.
A knock sounded at the door.
Not loud. Not cautious.
It was the kind of knock that didn’t ask permission. It announced presence.
I froze, breath held, as if the sound alone could undo me.
Then the door opened.
He didn’t step all the way in. He stood in the threshold, framed by the hallway’s dim light like he belonged to the dark wood and stone. Flannel again. Jeans. Boots. Hair slightly damp, as if he’d been outside or in the shower.
He looked … unhurried.
Like he’d slept well.
Like he hadn’t lain awake with his body burning because a stranger’s hand had made her ache and then left her empty on purpose.
His gaze landed on me and held.
My skin prickled.
His eyes weren’t the eyes of a man who wondered.
