Page 37

I scrub my skin in the shower like I’m trying to flay the last few days off my body.

It’s been days since Kento pinned me to the ground and made me come untouched, which, unfortunately, resulted in me leaving five men unattended.

Thank God they didn’t escape. Alexei would’ve killed me, resurrected me, and killed me again.

Still, I had to get the fuck out of there because how fucking embarrassing is that? My ego has been in critical condition ever since.

I’ve considered pretending the whole thing never happened, changing my name, moving countries, and possibly becoming a monk.

Obviously, I’m not doing any of that. My dick is a national treasure that shouldn’t be wasted. But the fact that I’ve seriously considered that should tell you everything you need to know about how badly my dignity was murdered that day.

I scrape the sponge down my chest, then lower, over my stomach, over my thighs, like pain might file the memory down.

It doesn’t.

I vividly remember that I came in my pants like some desperate, twitching slut while he praised me for it. Good. You’re so fucking good. I want that sentence burned out of my skull with acid.

And the worst part, the part that makes me want to put my head through the tile, is that it doesn’t even make sense. I need a lot of stimulation when I have sex. A lot.

I don’t get off easy, and I fuck a lot of girls, let that be known. Enough that I know what my body does and what it doesn’t.

Well, certainly not as many as he does, since he’s a proclaimed whore with his dick apparently available to half the city, but I’ve had my fair share.

None of them made me come like that. And none of them did it without even properly touching me.

On top of all of that, my little revenge plan didn’t even work. I wanted him gagging, humiliated, helpless. Instead, that sick motherfucker lay there and enjoyed it.

I shut the water off, step out, wrap a towel around my waist, and look in the mirror.

I drag my gaze down to my arms before I can stop myself.

I’m thankful he didn’t raise my shirt that day. If he had, he would’ve been disgusted.

My arms are covered in scars. Whatever maiming you can think of, it’s there.

Kento looks at me like I’m divine, and it makes me sick with wanting to believe it. My face, to him, is art, and I’m sure he’s looked at a hundred other people like that before dragging them into his bed.

But I’m terrified of the disgust on his face if he saw this.

He’d look at the wreckage and finally understand I’m not the pretty thing he keeps circling. I’m damaged goods.

I flex my fingers and watch the scars pull tight across my forearms. Then I step out of the bathroom before I end up putting new ones there.

Kento

I step into the Kazuma house a few days later and immediately hear the unmistakable sound of running footsteps.

Before I can even turn toward the hallway, two fifteen-year-old disasters come barreling around the corner and launch themselves at me. “Kento!”

I barely have time to set my keys on the side table before Yuma collides with my front, arms wrapping around my waist, while Akira crashes into my side.

I laugh despite myself and catch them both. “Hello to you too.”

Yuma looks up first. He’s grown taller again. His black hair falls softly over his forehead, and he pushes it back with one hand the second he realizes how hard he threw himself at me.

“I thought you weren’t coming until later,” he says.

His voice is warm and bright in that way it always is, so fundamentally gentle it sometimes feels absurd in this house. He’s always been like that. Pure sunshine.