Then her eyes finally meet mine, head held high, exposing the mark I left on her neck.
It’s there.
She’s not cowering. She’sthinking. Planning. Studying me like I’m a crumbling cathedral she needs to understand before she can decide whether to restore or demolish.
Choosing to engage rather than hide.
The shift is subtle. Seismic.
My cock stirs.Christ. Control yourself.
But this is better than submission. Better than surrender. This is her intelligence turned against me. Her restorer’s eye scanning for weaknesses, searching for cracks in my foundation.
She wants to understand what makes me work.
So she can... what? Fight better? Manipulate me?
It doesn’t matter.
Because Iwantto be known.
The realization is terrifying.
I’ve never wanted that before. Never wanted anyone to see past the monster. Never invited scrutiny. I’ve spent my entire adult life ensuring people see only what I allow. The ruthlessness, the control, the calculated violence that keeps them afraid and compliant.
But with her...
With her, I want to be studied. Dissected.Understood.
Even if understanding leads her to hate me more completely.
17
VIOLET
Iwake in the same dress. Red silk, wrinkled and twisted around my thighs like accusation made fabric. I never undressed last night. Just curled on top of the covers after he left, too wrecked to do anything but lie there and stare at the ceiling until exhaustion dragged me under.
Smell hits first.
His cologne. Citrus and wood, embedded in the silk where his body pressed against mine. And underneath that?—
Me.
The scent of my own arousal, dried now but unmistakable. Evidence I can’t wash away just by closing my eyes.
My stomach lurches.
I sit up too fast. Head spinning. Body protesting.
Damage assessment,my brain supplies automatically. Fine. I can do that. I’ve spent my career documenting what’s broken. Might as well apply those skills to myself.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand on shaking legs. The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I don’t want to see.
My lips. Still swollen. Tender when I press them together.
My neck?—
Oh, fuck.
