I'd given in. Not just physically—that would've been easier to forgive. To compartmentalize. To lock away in some dark corner of my mind labeled survival.
No.
I'd begged. Whispered his name like a prayer. Like he was the only answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.
And then after—when I was shaking and raw and falling apart—he'd been gentle. Fed me like I couldn't do it myself. Bathed me with hands that knew exactly where to touch and where not to. Dressed me in pajamas he'd bought, folded, anticipated.
I'd let him. Worse—I'd leaned into it. Into his touch. Into the care I didn't want to admit felt like safety.
My stomach twisted. Shame crashed over me in waves—hot and acidic and relentless. Each memory a fresh cut. His thumb wiping crumbs from my mouth. His voice, low and coaxing: Open your mouth. His hands washing my skin, reverent and possessive at once. The way he'd looked at me when I asked why he was being nice. That raw honesty in his voice: I just know I want to take care of you.
My chest tightened.
My body remembered the pleasure—the white-hot rush that had stolen my breath and my pride in equal measure.
My chest remembered the softness—the way he'd tucked blankets around me, brushed hair from my face, stood guard in the darkness.
My mind remembered every second. And that was the worst part.
Because I couldn't forget. Couldn't pretend it hadn't happened. Couldn't lie to myself that it didn't matter.
I hated him. For breaking me. For caring for me. For making me want both.
But I hated myself more.
For surrendering. For softening. For letting him see me vulnerable and not fighting back.
I threw the blankets off. Stood on shaking legs.
My reflection caught in the mirror across the room—pale, hollow-eyed, wearing pajamas that smelled faintly like him.
I looked away.
I'll never let him do that to me again.
The promise felt thin. Desperate.
I won't be weak like that again.
But even as I thought it, I knew the truth.
Gideon Jones had found the cracks in my armor.
And I'd let him in.
I moved carefully. Each step a reminder of yesterday. Of what I'd let him do. What I'd asked him to do.
My thighs ached. My hips protested. Something deep in my core pulsed with a tenderness that made heat crawl up my neck.
I wasn't walking right. I could feel it—the slight hitch in my stride, the way I favored one side, the careful distribution of weight that didn't quite hide the discomfort.
God. If anyone noticed…
I shoved the thought away and dressed quickly. Jeans that were looser than usual. A sweater that hung past my hips. Armor I could hide behind.
Downstairs, the house was silent.
Empty.
