“Fuck me,” I beg, my voice quivering. I’m already close, and I need him to come undone for me as I do for him.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Remember, I love you.”
Rafael takes a handful of my hip, the twine wrapped around his opposite hand, and begins fucking into my ass at a punishing pace. Within seconds, the fire of pain morphs into overwhelming pleasure, the burn consuming me from the inside out. Reaching down, I flick my fingers over my clit, but I know I barely need it to find my release.
It’s there, burning through my body like a wildfire.
“Fuuuucckkkk,” he roars into my hair, his body slapping against mine like an animal. “This body, this fucking ass, was made for me.”
“Yes,” I pant. “Yes! Oh fuck, Rafael, I’m close. I’m gonna?—”
He tugs on my nipples, sharper than before, ripping my release from my body. It’s different than any times before it. Instead of the euphoria spreading through my body like a warm glow, I burst into flames. Instead of tightening, I feel like I’m being torn open at the seams.
Instead of feeling like I’m giving part of me, I realize I’ve finally found myself—here, in the home I thought was my prison, doing the one thing I thought was my weakness, within the arms of the enemy I thought I’d give my life to.
I no longer care what I’ve done or what others have done to me. I no longer care where I’ve been or where I’m going. I don’t even care if I’m a Reyes anymore—I only care that I’m his.
FIFTY-THREE
VALENTINA
January 2nd, 2026
“Can we talk about your brother?”Susan’s leg bounces as she watches me. I watch her back, trying with all my might to pierce her brain and pick apart her thoughts the way she so effortlessly does with my own.
She’s annoying in almost every way. Still, I can’t seem to stay away, drawn to how she dissects every facet of my life with a fine toothed comb, overturning every hurt until its darkness withers beneath the light. It’s both exhausting and exhilarating.
I chew my lip, shrugging. “What about him?”
She gives me the most even, deadpan stare that tells me she’s as nearly sick of my shit as I am hers.It’s a game we play.
“He’s younger, bigger, better.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What more is there to say?”
“Have you talked to him more about your trauma? About your feelings?”
“At Christmas, we talked briefly.”
“And?”
“And…” I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “I don’t know. We talked about his upcoming wedding, and I told him I wanted to be there. Then, we cried over not knowing each other the way we wish we did and didn’t speak about it again for the rest of the evening.”
She’s silent a long time. So long, I begin fidgeting, uncomfortable with her laser vision cutting me open. “You’re seeing him this afternoon, correct?”
I nod, having told her so when I got here as an excuse as to why I couldn’t stay longer than an hour. Maybe it was my subconscious making sure I brought up the topic, because I’ve lost sleep over the meeting for two days now, even though I’d deny it.
I don’t know anymore.
“How are you feeling about that?”
“Fine,” I bite out.
“And how are you really feeling about it?”
I blow out a breath, tipping my head to the ceiling. I could get up and leave. I want to. “I’m nervous I’ll say the wrong thing, per usual. I’m afraid there’s all this build up for us to fix things, and what if it never happens? What if what we have is simply what we have?”
“Okay, let’s go with that train of thought. What if?”
I glare at her. She’s supposed to have the answers, yet all she ever gives me are stupid, repetitive questions. “Then I’d be fucking hurt and angry and no better off than I am.”
