Helena hesitated, still catching her breath, chest rising and falling like she'd just run uphill in full armor. Her eyes roamed over him despite herself, the traitorous part of her brain cataloguing every detail: the broad chest, the sculpted shoulders, the hard lines that no amount of dirt or disheveled hair could ruin.
Damn it.
She hated herself for even looking, but then her gaze snagged on something that made her brows knit together. Hickeys. Not one or two—plenty. A ridiculous number, scattered like a scandalous map across his skin. Some were fresh, dark and obvious. Others were older, faded into dull bruises. And—her stomach gave a strange flip—there were bite marks. Not random ones either. Perfect matches to her own teeth.
Her attention darted to his chest. Same bite pattern as the one she'd just sunk into his wrist minutes ago in the heat of their scuffle.
That meant…
No. Absolutely not. There was no way.
