Marks

I wake up sore in places I have never been sore before.

The sheets still smell like Damien. My thighs ache. There is a faint bruise on my left hip in the shape of his fingers and a tender spot on the back of my shoulder where he kissed me after he finished. When I sit up, the dull throb between my legs reminds me of every deep thrust, every time he made me say Adrian’s name while he was buried inside me.

I shower longer than usual, scrubbing until my skin is pink, but the evidence remains. I choose a high-necked sweater and dark jeans that cover everything. It still doesn’t feel like enough.

Downstairs, Adrian is already in the kitchen.

He is dressed for the office—charcoal suit, white shirt, no tie yet. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment his eyes linger on my face longer than usual.

“You’re pale,” he says.

“I didn’t sleep much.”

He sets his coffee down. “That’s the second night in a row. Is something wrong?”

The question is simple. The answer is not.

I force a small shrug and reach for a cup. “Just restless.”

Adrian studies me. I can feel him cataloguing the shadows under my eyes, the careful way I move, the distance I keep. For one terrifying second I wonder if he can smell Damien on me even after the shower.

Damien chooses that moment to walk in.

He looks rested, calm, completely untouched by the night. His eyes find mine across the kitchen and a private, satisfied smile touches his mouth so quickly I almost miss it.

“Morning,” he says to both of us. Then, to me, “You look like you had a long night.”

Adrian’s gaze sharpens.

I turn away and busy myself with the coffee pot. “I’m fine.”

Breakfast is quiet and strained. Adrian asks Damien a few questions about the Singapore numbers. Damien answers easily, occasionally glancing at me with that same subtle ownership from the night before. Every time our eyes meet, my body reacts—heat, memory, the phantom feel of him inside me.

I leave the table as soon as I can.

Adrian follows me into the foyer.

“Aria.”

I stop with my hand on the front door handle.

He steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can smell his cologne—clean, familiar, the scent that has lived in my fantasies for years. The contrast with the memory of Damien makes my stomach twist.

“If something is going on,” he says quietly, “you can tell me.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks me.

I want to tell him everything. I want to confess that his uncle was in my bed last night, that I came with Adrian’s name on my tongue while another man fucked me. I want him to react—anger, disgust, jealousy, anything but this careful concern.

Instead I shake my head.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Adrian’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He looks like he wants to say more, but his phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances at the screen and the professional mask slides back into place.

“I’ll be late tonight,” he says. “Don’t wait up.”

Then he is gone.

The door closes behind him. The house feels immediately larger and more dangerous.

I turn and find Damien leaning against the wall at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, watching me.

“He suspects something,” he says mildly.

“He doesn’t.”

“He will.” Damien pushes off the wall and walks toward me slowly. “You’re not as good at hiding as you think. The way you walk this morning. The way you flinch when he looks at you too long. It’s only a matter of time.”

He stops in front of me. One hand lifts and traces the high neckline of my sweater, then dips just far enough to brush the place on my shoulder where he kissed me last night.

“Still sore?” he asks softly.

I don’t answer.

Damien smiles. “Good. I want you to feel me every time you sit down today. Every time he speaks to you. Every time you try to pretend this isn’t happening.”

His fingers trail up the side of my neck and rest against my pulse.

“Tonight,” he says. “Same rule. Door unlocked. I’m not finished with you.”

He steps back, turns, and walks toward the home office like the conversation never happened.

I stand alone in the foyer, heart racing, body still marked from the night before, and realize with a sinking certainty that I am no longer in control of any of this.

Adrian is starting to notice.

Damien has no intention of stopping.

And the worst part is the quiet, shameful part of me that is already counting the hours until the house goes dark again.