All Chapters of Remember me naked: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

ALEXANDREI remain in her for a long moment, unable to break this bond that feels vital. Her warm breath brushes against my cheek, her fingers, still buried in my hair, open and close with small involuntary movements. She is here, alive, pulsating beneath me… and I could stay like this for eternity, as it feels so right.But I also sense her body trembling at times, from both fatigue and emotion. I don’t want to leave her exhausted. So I kiss her gently, chastely this time, on her lips still swollen from our kisses. Then I withdraw from her with infinite caution, making sure she feels no discomfort.She sighs, a sound mingled with emptiness and tranquility, then closes her eyes, her dark lashes brushing against her cheeks.— Go back to sleep, she murmurs, barely audible.— No… it’s already daytime, and you must be hungry. I’ll run you a bath.I place a kiss on her forehead before getting up. The floorboards are cold under my bare feet, but I feel nothing. My body is still vibrating, e

LYRAThe sky is a clear blue as we step out of the house. The morning air carries the crisp freshness of days that promise good weather, a gentle breeze that makes the leaves of the trees around the family garden tremble. I take a deep breath, almost to calm the rapid beating in my chest. Alexandre opens the car door for me with that little elegant and attentive gesture he has always had for me, the one that reminds me that with him, I am never alone.— Ready? he asks, his half-smile, the one that always makes me melt, the one that seems to know my hesitations before I even admit them.I nod, unable to speak without my voice trembling. My fingers briefly brush against his before he walks around the car to sit on the driver’s side.The engine purrs softly, and we hit the road. The scenery passes slowly, as if it wants to accompany us in this suspended moment: the fields still beaded with dew, the groves where light filters in golden sheets through the branches, the houses that graduall

CASSANDRAThree months.Three months counting the cracks on the wall, feeling the icy concrete against my skin, waiting for time to pass like poison, drop by drop. Three months of humiliation, pain, sleepless nights where mocking laughter follows me into my nightmares.Each day starts the same way: a brutal awakening, hostile glances, whispers that cut like invisible blades. The cold has become a second skin, my ragged clothes are nothing but an illusion of warmth. My ribs still remind me of some blows, memories of altercations I didn’t choose. I no longer have the strength to defend myself every time… but I grit my teeth, swallow my shame, absorb each wound like a mark to offer later, when the time comes.They hate me. They despise me. Some hit me out of boredom, others out of cruelty, still others out of habit.— So, princess, sleeping well on your iron throne? a voice sneers, as a violent hand shoves me against the wall.— Look at her, she still thinks she’s worth something, anothe

CASSANDRAThe silence weighs heavily, thick as a damp sheet.They stare at me.All of them.The three harpies recoil, one with a shredded wrist, another with a blood-streaked cheek, the third breathless, eyes wide open. But behind them, other silhouettes have approached. Thin shadows, emaciated bodies, but with greedy gazes. The inmates. Those who do not strike, who observe. The silent witnesses of every humiliation, every fall.And tonight, they have seen something else.— She bit… a hoarse voice breathes.The whisper spreads like wildfire, snaking from mouth to mouth.The princess bit.Some snicker, nervously, to ward off their own fear. Others look away, unable to meet my gaze, as if merely crossing my pupils could contaminate them. But in the depths of some eyes, a light ignites. A sickly spark: fear.I smile. My split lips still spit a trickle of red. The Scar stares at me, rage vibrating in her trembling arm. But I know. I am no longer the prey. Not anymore.She hesitates. She s

CASSANDRAThe whisper swells, each day a little more, like a dark tide rising in the heart of the damp walls that never recedes, crawling through the narrow corridors, hissing between the twisted bars, slipping into the breathless whispers of the cafeteria, until it saturates the very air, so that we no longer speak only of the princess who has fallen from her pedestal, but of me, Cassandra, the one who does not bend, the one already called the bite, the one who laughs when the blood spurts and pain becomes spectacle.And around me, without me calling for it, without me demanding it, a pack begins to weave, fiber by fiber, an unstable but growing circle, composed of women who approach with hesitant steps, some with small stolen remnants like clumsy offerings, others with whispered confidences as if shedding a poisoned weight, and then there are those who bring nothing, not a gesture, not a word, but who stand there, motionless, simply nourished by my presence, as if my shadow alone we