“You’re judging me,” I murmur, squinting at him through the morning light streaming in from the wall of windows. His eyes catch it, glowing gold. “Don’t look at me like that. I can see it in your smug little face.”
He yawns, flashing teeth. Deliberate.
My body aches as I lie there, still half-blurred with sleep, like the edges of me haven’t fully caught up. For a second, it feels like all of it—the nightmare with Evan, the way Anton tore him off me, the way last night ended in heat and his hands everywhere—might have been some insane dream.
Then the soreness pulls me back. The tender throb between my legs. The weight in my limbs.
And Sunday. God, it’s already Sunday.
I don’t even know how long he stayed. I remember the heavy thrum of his chest under my ear, then the shift of the mattress, the sound of footsteps moving away. By the time it registered, I was already sliding back under.
“Mmmwp.”
This time it isn’t a sweet little purr. Gordo launches his entire weight forward, head-butting my chin like he’s trying to crack my jaw open, then flops sideways with all twenty pounds pressing on my throat. I choke on a wheeze.
“Jesus, Gordo.” My voice comes out strangled. “Are you trying to smother me into the afterlife because I forgot your breakfast?”
He blinks, unimpressed, then kneads his claws into my sternum like he’s punching in a PIN code.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I forgot your breakfast. And probably my brain, too.”
I give Gordo a tired pat on the head before nudging at his bulk, trying to shift him off me. Then I push myself up. Instantly regret it.
“Oh, no. Ohhh, fuck.”
Every muscle revolts. My thighs burn, my back feels like I went a few rounds in Fight Club, and my pussy—God—my pussyactually throbs when I shift, still swollen, still clenching like it’s remembering what happened.
“Jesus, Mary. Reckless much?” I mutter, easing onto my elbows like a ninety-year-old. “No condom. No plan. Just a total mess. And… Mister Green Eyes with a kill count.”
Gordo meows like he agrees, only louder. Translation: feed me. NOW.
“Ok, ok,” I tell him.
On my way to stand, my eyes flick toward the other side of the bed. His side.
Pristine. Untouched. Pillow still puffed like it was fluffed by a maid.
My stomach sinks.
“Of course he left.” It tastes bitter in my mouth. “Men like him don’t stay. They conquer, they vanish.”
And yet… my eyes betray me. I can’t help scanning the room, searching for some trace that he was really here.
Bedside table—empty. Closet door—closed. No glass of water, no jacket slung over a chair. Nothing. If not for the faint, lingering trace of his scent—smoke, leather, and something dark I don’t have a name for—I could almost believe I dreamed the whole thing.
Except my body is evidence enough.
“God, I’m an idiot.”
Was it just sex? Stress relief? A quick fuck to clear his head before he went back to… whatever Bratva men do on Sunday mornings? My brain starts chewing on every little detail, ripping it apart like it always does.
Was I too loud? Too messy? Oh God.
The thought flickers, and suddenly it’s not the silence I feel but his heat. Anton’s body caging mine against the shower wall, his breath hot on my ear as he said those filthy things, words that didn’t just touch me, they rewired me.
I’ve never felt that before. It was like every nerve ending in my body had been flipped on, every cell burning alive under his mouth, his hands, his cock. My skin still remembers it, humming like it’s waiting for him to do it again.
I squeeze my thighs together and nearly groan.
