"I've always had faith in you."
His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw flexed beneath my palm. And for one fleeting, fragile moment, I felt the bond between us hum with something that felt dangerously close to whole.
“Get dressed.”
I stood there, still tingling from his kiss. My lips felt swollen. My skin still hummed where he'd touched me.
There it was.
Rocco had lost faith in himself. And nothing I said—no kiss, no touch, no whispered promise—was going to change that. Not until he forgave himself for what he'd done.
I sighed and turned toward the closet, my heart aching for a man who was too broken to see that he deserved to be whole.
I rifled through what was there. A couple of T-shirts, a pair of jeans, some sandals near the bottom. Rose and I were about the same size, so hopefully the jeans would fit. I pulled them out and pressed them against my hips. Close enough.
Something rustled behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder, and every coherent thought I'd ever had evaporated.
Rocco had taken off his shirt. The muscles in his back flexed as he reached for a T-shirt—sculpted ridges shifting beneath tanned skin, his abs carved like they'd been chiseled from stone. A faded scar traced along his ribs, and I wanted to know the story behind it. Wanted to trace it with my fingertips. With my mouth.
He was beautiful. Infuriatingly, devastatingly beautiful.
I could still feel his lips on mine like a brand. I could still taste him—his blood, his mouth, the low groan he'd made when I'd sunk my fangs into his throat. My body hadn't come down from any of it. Every nerve was still lit up, still reaching for him like a compass needle swinging north.
He pulled the T-shirt over his head and the show was over. I nearly whimpered at the loss.
He glanced up.
I snapped my gaze away, heat flooding my cheeks so fast it was almost painful.
Stop drooling. Stay focused.
He'd made me his prisoner. He'd bitten me without my consent and dragged me into a nightmare. That kiss—that earth-shattering, soul-wrecking kiss—didn't erase any of it. For all I knew, the desire he'd shown me was just the blood bond talking. A chemical reaction. Something his body couldn't help, not something his heart had chosen.
I wanted it to be real. God, I wanted it to be real. But wanting something didn't make it true. Two years of rejection had taught me that lesson in the most brutal way possible.
I turned my back to him and slipped off the straps of my ruined gown, letting the fabric pool at my feet. The air hit my bare skin and I shivered—not from the cold.
I could feel his eyes on me.
His gaze settled over my shoulders, my spine, the curve of my waist, hot and heavy as a physical touch. I didn't turn around. Didn't need to. The bond hummed between us like a live wire, and I knew—knew with absolute certainty—that he was watching every move I made.
A flush spread from my burning cheeks down through my chest and all the way to my curled-up toes. My fingers trembled as I reached for a red T-shirt.
Part of me wanted to turn around and catch him looking. Wanted to see that raw hunger in his eyes again and know it was meant for me.
The other part—the part that had spent two years putting myself back together after he'd shattered me—was terrified of what I’d do if I saw it.
Chapter Seventeen
Selena
Then he was behind me. Close. Too close.
His palms settled on my bare shoulders, warm and sure, and every muscle in my body tensed and melted at the same time. His thumbs feathered over the base of my neck, slow and deliberate, and I stopped breathing.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice was low, rough-edged, his breath ghosting against the curve of my ear.
