Chapter 4: The Morning Aftermath

Bella’s POV

Sunlight slices through the blackout curtains like a blade—thin, merciless, cutting straight across my bare hip.

I wake up sore in places I forgot could ache.

My thighs are sticky. My core throbs with a dull, satisfied pulse. There’s a faint bruise blooming on the inside of my left breast where Nico sucked too hard, and another set of fingerprints wrapped around my upper arm like a bracelet he forgot to remove. The sheets smell of sex, rain, and him—leather, smoke, salt.

He’s still inside me.

Not fully hard anymore, but thick enough that every shallow breath I take reminds me he never pulled out after the second round. We’d collapsed sometime around three a.m., bodies tangled, his cock softening but refusing to leave. I’d fallen asleep with him draped over me like a living blanket, one arm locked around my waist, face buried in my neck.

Now the arm is still there—possessive even in sleep.

I shift slightly.

He stirs. Tightens. A low, sleepy growl vibrates against my throat.

“Don’t move,” he mumbles. Voice wrecked from hours of dirty commands and my name on repeat.

“I need to pee,” I whisper.

A beat. Then he sighs—long-suffering, affectionate—and slowly withdraws.

The drag of him leaving my body makes me whimper. I’m swollen, sensitive, still leaking him. He watches the slow trickle down my thigh with dark, hooded eyes.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Heat floods my face. I try to close my legs.

He stops me with a firm hand on my knee. “No hiding.”

Then he leans down and licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the inside of my thigh—cleaning his own release from my skin. Tongue hot. Unhurried. My hips jerk involuntarily.

“Nico—”

“Shh.” He kisses the crease where thigh meets hip. “Let me take care of you.”

He scoops me up—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and carries me to the ensuite bathroom. Marble everywhere. Rainfall shower big enough for four. He sets me on the counter, turns on the water until steam fills the room, then lifts me again and steps under the spray with me still in his arms.

Hot water cascades over us.

He washes me.

Hands gentle now—nothing like the bruising grip from last night. Soap suds slide over my breasts, my stomach, between my legs. He kneels—actually kneels—on the tile and parts my thighs again. Washes me there too, fingers careful, reverent. When I’m clean he presses the softest kiss to my clit. Just once. Like a promise.

I thread my fingers through his wet hair.

“Why are you being so sweet?” I ask quietly.

He looks up at me through dark lashes dripping water.

“Because last night I fucked you like I was claiming territory.” He stands, towers over me again. Cups my face. “This morning I want to remind you I’d worship the ground you walk on if you asked me to.”

My throat tightens.

He kisses me under the water—slow, deep, unhurried. No teeth this time. Just tongue and heat and something achingly tender.

When we finally step out he wraps me in a thick black towel, dries me himself. Carries me back to the bedroom. Dresses me in one of his shirts—soft black cotton that hits mid-thigh on me, sleeves rolled up. Smells like him.

He pulls on low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing else. The V of his hips, the cut of his abs, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband—it’s obscene. Deliberate.

He makes coffee. Black for him. Cream and two sugars for me. Sets the mug in my hands, then pulls me onto his lap on the sectional. My back to his chest. His arms cage me in.

We don’t speak for a long time.

Just sip. Listen to rain that hasn’t stopped. Watch Manhattan shimmer across the river like it’s mocking us.

Then his phone buzzes on the coffee table.

He tenses.

Ignores it.

It buzzes again. And again.

He curses under his breath. Reaches for it.

Screen lights up his face—harsh blue in the dim room.

His expression hardens instantly.

“What?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the message.

Then turns the phone so I can see.

A single photo.

Me.

Last night.

Outside the Eclipse Tower.

Victor’s hand under my dress. My head thrown back against the glass. Lips parted. Eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

Below the image, one line of text:

She still moans my name the sweetest.

Tell Romano his turn is over.

My stomach drops.

Nico’s arm around my waist becomes iron.

He sets the phone down very carefully.

Then he stands—lifting me with him—and sets me on my feet.

“Stay here,” he says. Voice flat. Deadly calm.

“Nico—”

“Stay. Here.”

He walks to the bar. Opens a drawer. Pulls out a matte-black pistol. Checks the magazine. Slides it into the back of his waistband.

My heart slams against my ribs.

“You’re not—”

“I’m not going to kill him.” He meets my eyes. “Not today. But he needs to understand something.”

He crosses to me. Cups my face. Kisses me once—hard, bruising.

“You’re mine now,” he says against my lips. “He touches what’s mine again, and I stop being nice.”

Then he’s gone—out the steel door, boots echoing down the hall.

The lock clicks.

I’m alone.

Wearing his shirt.

Still leaking him.

Staring at a photo of another man’s hand between my legs.

My phone—left on the charger all night—lights up with a new notification.

Victor.

No photo this time.

Just a voice message.

I hit play before I can talk myself out of it.

His voice fills the room—low, velvet, dangerous.

“Bella.”

A pause. Like he’s savoring my name.

“I hope you enjoyed your little rebellion last night. I hope he fucked you hard. I hope you screamed for him. Because every time you come from now on, you’ll feel the ghost of my fingers. Every time he’s inside you, you’ll remember how much tighter you clenched when it was me.”

Another pause. I can hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m not angry. I’m patient.”

A soft chuckle.

“And I’m coming for what’s mine.”

The message ends.

Silence.

Just rain.

And the sudden, violent thud of my heartbeat.

I sink onto the couch.

Legs shaking.

Because the truth hits me like cold water:

They’re not going to let me choose.

They’re going to make me.

And whichever way I turn—gold cage or blood oath—someone is going to bleed.

Probably all of us.