The pad of his thumb grazes my bottom lip, slow, over the swollen cut Evan left behind. I flinch, but he doesn’t pull away. The touch isn’t gentle. But it’s… careful. Like he’s not trying to soothe it. Just mark the damage for himself.
I should hate it.
Should shove him away. Should remind myself that whatever he is, he’s not safe.
But my body’s faster than my brain. Every nerve fires awake, greedy after being numb too long. My pulse trips, slams. My mouth tingles where he touched, like it already belongs to him.
And God help me, part of me wants more.
His eyes flick up. One breath of space between us.
“Hold still.” That’s all he says.
Then he moves.
Big hands on my waist—hot, solid, inescapable. He lifts me as though I weigh nothing and sets me on the counter. Glass jars rattle behind me. The marble bites into the backs of my thighs, cold and hard and grounding. But it’s not enough.
Anton steps between my knees. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait. Just fills the space like he was always meant to.
“Anton—” His name cracks on my lips, too thin to hold everything inside me right now.
My cheeks flush hot. I try to shift back—instinct more than thought—but there’s nowhere to go; the counter edge digs into my lower back, the mirror cool against my shoulders.
I’m pinned. And I’m wet.God, I’m wet.
I hold my breath without meaning to. Like if I stay perfectly still, maybe he won’t notice. Maybe the air will shift. Maybe I’ll wake up. But nothing moves.
Not him. Not me. Just the weight of him pressed between my thighs and the sound of my own heartbeat climbing into my throat.
His gaze pins me in place. “He put his hands on you.”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A fact.
“Yes.” The word barely makes it out.
One hand lifts, rough fingers brushing the edge of my collarbone where my blouse is torn. His touch is so light it shouldn’t leave a mark, but it does—heat streaking across my skin.
“Here?”
I nod.
His other hand slides lower, settling on my waist, thumb pressing the tender spot where Evan had gripped me. “Here?”
“Yes.” My voice breaks.
Something dark flickers across his face, violent, dangerous. His thumb moves in a slow circle, overwriting the memory of someone else’s hands with his own.
He’s too close. Too much. Towering over me, caging me in with nothing but his body. My pulse stutters, knees trembling even though he’s holding them open his weight.
I should be afraid. Should tell him to step back. But all I can think about is his mouth—cut clean, inches from mine. My throat works; useless, because some treacherous part of me is already wondering what he tastes like.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
Of course it does. Everything hurts.
My skin. My chest. My head. But the real pain is deeper, tangled in every word Evan ever shoved down my throat.
I want to lie. To shrug. To make it small. That’s what I’ve always done.
