Dawn Departure

Four times.

Four distinct, punishing times, until the muscles in my thighs shook so violently I could barely support my own weight.

First against the cold stone of the console, where he shattered my innocence and proved my body wasn't defective. Then on the heavy Persian rug in the middle of the floor, his weight pressing me into the plush wool while the city lights flickered through the glass. Hours later, he carried me to his king-sized bed, taking me in the dark with a slow, agonizing rhythm that tore every remaining defense out of my chest, only to wake me just before four in the morning to pull me beneath him again.

Ethan had never touched me more than once in an entire weekend. And even then, it was always over in minutes—a quick, dry routine meant to stroke his ego before he drifted off to sleep, leaving me staring into the dark.

Damon didn't sleep. He consumed.

Now, the master bedroom was wrapped in the icy, blue-gray haze of early dawn.

I lay on my side, completely naked, staring at the shadows shifting across the ceiling. Every inch of my body carried the evidence of him. My inner thighs ached with a deep, heavy soreness that pulsed with every breath. The skin on my collarbones and along the curve of my neck burned where his mouth and stubble had claimed me, and my lips were so tender they stung when I parted them.

Beside me, Damon was fast asleep, sprawled on his stomach across the tangled white linen sheets.

One of his massive, corded arms was thrown over my waist, his heavy hand resting flat against my bare hip. His dark hair was a tousled mess on the pillow, and the sculpted expanse of his broad back was completely bare, displaying hard muscle carved into sharp lines. Even in deep sleep, his posture radiated danger.

His weight over my hip felt warm. It felt safe.

No.

The thought struck me like a bucket of freezing water.

A dangerous flutter stirred in my chest—an involuntary surge of tenderness that made my throat tighten. The memory of his hands holding the back of my head, his heavy breath against my cheek as he collapsed over me, threatening to blur the line.

No feelings. No attachment. Total secrecy.

Those were the rules. The second I started lingering in the morning light, waiting to share coffee or look into his dark eyes over breakfast, the arrangement would rot. I wasn't here to replace Ethan with his uncle. I was here to take my pleasure, reclaim my dignity, and keep my heart completely out of reach.

Slowly, holding my breath, I reached down and took Damon’s thick wrist.

I lifted his heavy arm off my hip millimeter by millimeter. His brow furrowed in his sleep, his jaw tightening as if his subconscious refused to let me go, but he didn't wake. I slipped out from under the duvet, my bare feet landing softly on the hardwood floor.

A sharp, delicious ache radiated between my legs the moment my feet took my weight. I had to bite my lower lip to swallow down a small gasp.

Four times. The soreness was a brand, reminding me of every uninhibited sound I had made against his mouth.

I didn't turn on a single light. Moving through the dim apartment like a ghost, I gathered my things. My black lace panties were still lying on the Persian rug in the living room, damp and crumpled. I scooped them up, along with my heels and my black jersey wrap dress.

I pulled the dress over my head, knotting the single silk ribbon firmly around my waist. The fabric brushed against my hypersensitive skin, making my nipples tighten instantly beneath the cloth. I didn't bother putting the heels back on; I carried them in one hand, padding silently toward the front foyer.

I didn't leave a note. I didn't glance back toward the open bedroom door.

I opened the heavy front door, slipped out into the empty vestibule, and pulled the lock shut behind me with a faint click.

The cold morning air hit me the second I stepped out of the high-rise tower into the deserted street. The sun was barely a faint pink streak over the distant horizon. The city was still half-asleep, gray and quiet.

I hailed a yellow cab, sinking into the cracked leather backseat, my body thrumming with an exhaustion so profound it felt like a drug. I rested my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the streetlights blink off one by one as we drove back to my side of town.

By the time I reached my apartment, stripped off the dress, and stood under the scalding spray of the shower, the clock on my vanity read six-fifteen.

I let the hot water pound against my sore shoulders. As I washed the scent of his cedar and bourbon from my skin, a red mark high on the inside of my left thigh caught my eye in the mirror—a dark, purplish bruise left by his thumb. A hidden mark. A private reminder of the man who had wrecked me on a marble slab while my fiancé slept across the city.

A sharp buzz echoed from the bathroom counter.

I turned off the water, wrapped myself in a thick white robe, and reached for my phone.

Ethan: Brutal hangover. Guys went crazy with tequila last night. Barely made it home around 3. Need you to pick up my dry cleaning for the brunch tomorrow, babe. Head hurts too much to drive. Love you.

I stared at the screen, a suffocating wave of revulsion washing over me so violently my stomach flipped.

Guys went crazy.

He wasn't with the guys. I knew exactly whose bed he had crawled into, whose perfume was probably still lingering on his collar. The casual, entitled audacity of it was sickening. He spent the night rutting around with Victoria, and his first instinct in the morning was to use me as an errand girl to fetch his clothes, tossing a hollow Love you at the end like a bone to a dog.

My skin literally crawled.

For two years, I would have replied with concern. I would have asked if he wanted me to bring over coffee and aspirin, eager to play the doting, helpful partner while swallowing down my own loneliness.

Then I looked back into the bathroom mirror.

My lips were still swollen from Damon’s mouth. The dark bruise on my inner thigh was throbbing faintly under the hem of my robe. My body was completely awake, thoroughly ruined, and utterly untouchable to the boy who thought he owned me.

I didn't text him back about aspirin. I didn't agree to fetch his suits.

I typed a single, icy sentence:

Handle your own clothes, Ethan. I have plans today.

I hit send, tossed the phone face-down on the marble counter, and let out the first genuine, wicked laugh I had felt in two years.