Page 42 of Secret Heir

“You’re mine,” he says against my ear, his voice dark and possessive. “You’ve always been mine. Running and hiding didn’t change that. Eight years didn’t change that.”

“No—”

“Yes.” He bites down on my neck, hard enough to leave another mark. “You can lie to yourself all you want. But your body knows the truth.”

His hand moves between us again, finding my clit, and the combination of sensations pushes me over the edge a second time.

This orgasm is even more intense than the first, tearing through me like a storm, and I can’t stop the sob that escapes my throat.

He fucks me through it, relentless, until I’m shaking and oversensitive and begging him to stop, to keep going—I don’t even know anymore.

His rhythm becomes erratic, and I can tell he’s close. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise, and I know I’ll see the marks tomorrow.

The evidence of this moment.

Proof of what we’ve done.

He comes with a harsh groan, his body going rigid above me.

There’s no sweet words or declarations like before.

This is just pure physical release and the satisfaction of claiming what he thinks is his.

We lie there for a long moment afterward, tangled together on the floor of the library, breathing hard.

Finally, he pulls out and rolls away from me, sitting up and running his hands through his disheveled hair.

The firelight catches on the scratches I’ve left on his neck and the marks that everyone will see tomorrow.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say, reaching for my clothes with shaking hands. My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “This was a mistake.”

“Agreed.” His voice is flat as he zips his pants, not looking at me. “It won’t happen again.”

Why do I feel like that’s a lie?

He stands, straightening his shirt. There’s a coldness in his eyes now, a distance that wasn’t there even during sex. Now that the moment is over, he’s retreating back behind his walls.

“Goodnight, Aria.” His voice is carefully controlled again, all the emotion locked away behind that impenetrable mask.

He leaves without another word, closing the door softly behind him.

I lie there on the rug surrounded by fallen books, my body still thrumming with aftershocks.

The smell of him on my skin and the taste of him on my lips envelopes me.

I wait for regret and shame. I wait for something other than this terrible, aching emptiness. But nothing comes.

Instead, I pull my knees to my chest and let myself cry.

Not because I regret it—I do, but that’s not why I’m crying. I’m crying because for those few minutes, I felt something other than suffocating rage and inadequacy and grief.

I felt alive, even if it was through anger and pain and hate.

I’m crying because I wanted it.

Because I still want him, even though he’s exactly what I was running from.

Nothing has changed. We just used each other’s bodies to inflict pain instead of pleasure.