Helena woke up thinking she had just taken an ordinary nap. That was the first lie her brain told her.
The second came a heartbeat later, when she stretched and the dull, throbbing ache between her thighs flared in protest. Her breath caught, and her eyes flew open. No. No, no, no—
She bolted upright, hands scrambling to check herself. Her fingers traced over her skin and stopped dead when they found marks. Not just one or two—there were several, scattered across her body like some drunken artist had decided to experiment with purple paint. Some were still dark and vivid, others fading into sickly shades of blue and yellow.
Her pulse spiked. "What the hell—?" she muttered under her breath.
Panic set in fast. She twisted around, craning her neck, her fingertips brushing over more of the marks along her collarbone, her shoulders, even the side of her ribs. The shapes were unmistakable—hickeys. The kind you didn't get from accidentally bumping into something.
