55. Fractures In The Dawn

CHAPTER 55

Fractures In The Dawn

ILEANA

When Wren eases out of me, and steps back, my body immediately protests the loss. My hands are still pressed against the wall, exactly where he placed them. I stay like that, bracing myself, willing my heart to slow down, while I gulp in lungfuls of air.

I don’t know what to feel. Or maybe I do, and I’m afraid to name it.

His hands find my waist again, pulling me away from the wall and turning me toward him. Before I can fully process what’s happening, he lifts me into his arms. My head rests against his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding me in a way that feels too intimate, too raw after what we’ve just done. Every step he takes down the hallway brings with it images of the last few hours. His hands on me, his mouth claiming mine, the devastating truths he revealed between every thrust, every invasion, the defenses he tore apart.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice whispers.

You gave them to him.

A door creaks open, a rush of cool air hitting my overheated skin. He sets me on my feet, and the world tilts. His hands steady me as my knees buckle, tiredness hitting me in a sudden wave. I glance around as the bathroom comes into focus. Marble, mirrors, everything cold and unforgiving against my bare feet.

“Stay here.”

The faint scent of raspberries fills the air as he twists the faucets on the clawfoot tub. It’s so ordinary what he’s doing. Testing the water temperature, adjusting the flow, watching the tub fill. And yet it feels surreal after the intensity of everything that’s just happened.

I wrap my arms around myself, hyper-aware of my nakedness, of the bruises and marks he’s left on my skin. My reflection catches my eye in the mirrors. I look wild—flushed cheeks, tousled hair, eyes bright with the aftermath of arousal. But it’s not just my appearance that’s different. It’s something deeper. Something I can’t deny any longer.

I didn’t just let him do this to me.

I wanted it.

When the tub is full, he comes back, lifting me again, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. I should resist, but I don’t. Not because I’m too tired, but because I simply don’t want to.

The hot water envelops me as he lowers me into the tub, drawing a soft gasp from me. I sink into it, letting the warmth seep into my aching muscles, and close my eyes as the tension begins to ease.

“Lean forward.” His voice is soft.

I obey without hesitation. It should scare me how easily I listen to him. How much I crave his approval. But it doesn’t. It feels right.

He dips a washcloth into the water, and moves it over my skin. Each stroke is gentle but possessive, as though he’s claiming me all over again.

“Are you sore?” His voice is quiet, almost soft, but there’s an edge to it. My eyes flutter open, meeting his gaze through the steam.

I hesitate, swallowing. My body aches in ways I’ve never experienced before, tender and sore from everything he’s taken from me.

“Yes. A little,” I whisper.

His eyes darken, and his hand pauses, the cloth hovering just above my skin.

“Good.” His voice is low and rough, and it sends a shiver through me, despite the heat of the water. “I want you to remember this. Remember how it feels.”

I glance at him, searching his face for something … anything that shows me he’s feeling the same way I am. For a moment, there's a hint of something almost soft in his expression, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. I bite my lip, turning my head away from him, but he doesn’t let me escape. His hand cups my jaw, forcing me to look back at him.

“I want you to feel me even when I’m not inside you,” he says, his fingers brushing over my shoulder, lingering for a moment too long.

The words should shame me, but they don’t. Instead, they spark something deep and undeniable.

Because he’s right.

I lower my gaze, fingers curling around the edge of the tub. I don’t know who I am anymore. The ghost girl who hid in the shadows for her entire life, or the woman sitting here now, marked by him, and wanting something I don’t fully understand.

But maybe I don’t need to understand it.

Maybe I just need to own it.

“Did you like it?” His eyes search mine. “My mouth on you, my fingers inside you, my dick filling you? Did you like that?” His fingers brush between my thighs, over my clit, and I gasp, a mix of pain and unwanted arousal making me shudder.

“Yes.”

His lips tip up into a satisfied smile, and he leans closer, kissing my shoulder. His voice lowers, dark and coaxing. “Did you like giving me your mouth? The way I filled your throat—tell me how it made you feel.”

I nod, the movement almost imperceptible, my heart pounding in my chest. His gaze holds me captive, and he waits.

“Tell me.”

A tremor runs through me.

“Yes.” God help me, I did like it. I liked the way his voice thickened, the way he growled, the way his hands felt in my hair, the way he saw me. “It made me feel ... wanted.”

The heat that floods my body is matched only by the calm that settles over my mind. I can’t keep pretending this is something he’s doing to me. This— us —isn’t just him pulling strings. It’s me letting him.

No. It’s me wanting him to.

I hate how much I need his approval, how much I crave his touch.

“Good. Because I’m not done with you yet, Ballerina.”

He wraps me in a towel, while the water is draining away, his touch still too gentle for someone who’s just dismantled my entire world. When he carries me back down the hallway into a bedroom, and lays me on the cool sheets of a bed, something shifts inside of me.

I don’t want him to leave.

I don’t want to be alone in this new reality he’s created for me.

He pulls the sheets over me, and turns.

“Stay.”

He pauses, his gaze locking onto mine. For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me, but then he sits on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“You’re stronger than you think.” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.

And for the first time, I believe him.