"It's real."
"Show me."
I stood and pulled her up with me.
My fingers found the hem of her shirt—torn, dirty from the floor of the manor—and lifted it slowly over her head. She raised her arms to help, and the fabric fell away, revealing the pale skin beneath.
Bruises marked her arms, her ribs. The places where Branko had grabbed her, held her, hurt her. I traced each one with my fingertips, feather-light, my jaw tight with fury that had nowhere left to go.
"I'm okay," she said softly. "They don't hurt."
"They hurt me."
She reached up and touched my face, turning it toward her. "Then make me forget about them."
I kissed her again. Harder this time, with more intent. My hands found the clasp of her bra and released it, the fabric sliding down her arms and falling to the floor. She pressed against me, her bare skin warm through my ruined shirt, her fingers working at the buttons.
"Off," she murmured against my mouth. "I want this off."
I helped her, shrugging out of the shirt and letting it drop. Her hands explored my chest, tracing the lines of muscle, pausing at a cut on my side I hadn't noticed until now.
"You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"Let me—"
"Later." I caught her hands and brought them to my lips. "Right now, there's only you."
I lowered her onto the bed, following her down, covering her body with mine. She arched up to meet me, her hips pressing against mine, a soft sound escaping her lips.
I wanted to take my time. Wanted to worship every inch of her, erase every touch that had come before mine. But there was an urgency building between us—the aftermath of violence, the need to feel alive—that made patience impossible.
My mouth found her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her breast. She gasped when my lips closed around her nipple, her back arching off the bed, her hands fisting in my hair.
"Rodion—"
I moved lower, trailing kisses down her stomach. My fingers hooked into the waistband of her pants and pulled them down, taking her underwear with them. She lifted her hips to help, and then she was bare beneath me, beautiful and vulnerable and mine.
I kissed her hip, her thigh, the soft skin of her inner leg. She trembled under my touch, her breath coming faster, her hands clutching at the sheets.
"Please," she whispered. "I need—"
I knew what she needed.
My mouth found her center, and she cried out.
I took my time now. Drew out her pleasure with slow, deliberate strokes of my tongue, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her say my name like a prayer. She was wet and warm and perfect, and I lost myself in the taste of her, in the sounds she made, in the way her body moved against my mouth.
Her thighs tightened around my head. Her hands gripped my hair. I felt her climbing toward the edge, felt the tensionbuilding in her body, and pressed deeper, harder, giving her everything she needed.
"Rodion—I'm—"
She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, her voice breaking on a cry that filled the room. I worked her through it, gentling my touch as the waves subsided, pressing soft kisses to her skin as she came back to herself.
When I looked up, her eyes were bright with tears.
"Come here," she said. "I need you inside me."
