Branded
The bite throbbed long after his teeth left her skin. Lena dressed carefully that evening, blouse high at the collar, jacket sharp. But the fabric dragged against the bruise with every movement, phantom heat searing where his mouth had claimed her. The ribbon's ghost still scored her wrists, faint lines pulsing like hidden script.
She drove home with the window cracked, cold air rushing in, trying to steady the tremor in her body. It didn't work. Every red light, every turn, the phantom weight of Julian's hand stayed at the back of her neck, reminding her. Good girl.
By the time she pulled into the driveway, her stomach was tight. Ethan's car was already there. His silhouette filled the kitchen window, waiting.
The Confrontation
The kitchen smelled of bourbon and lemon oil, sharp under the light. Ethan stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, one hand braced on the wood. A glass sat untouched beside him.
"You've been gone a lot." His voice was steady, measured. "Late nights. No calls."
Her throat closed. She set her bag down carefully. "Work's been heavy."
But the words were hollow. Because in that moment she wasn't standing in their kitchen. She was bent over Julian's lap, skirt bared, his voice steel above her: Your body remembers what your mouth forgets.
Her wrists tingled with phantom silk. Her shoulder ached with phantom heat.
"Work," Ethan repeated. His gaze lingered at her throat, and her pulse stumbled, terrified he could see the bruise beneath her blouse.
She forced her voice steady. "That's all."
The bite seared hotter, throbbing louder than her pulse. Her lie tasted sour before she even spoke it.
"Yes."
Ethan studied her. The bourbon glass stayed full. "I asked for dinner. You said yes. Then you didn't show. Twice."
Her mouth opened. Nothing came. Silence swelled, louder than any argument. And in that silence she heard it. The sharp crack of Julian's hand, the sound still living in her skin.
He exhaled, long and tired. "Lena… if something's wrong, I need you to tell me."
The words gutted her. Tell him. Tell him everything.
But Julian's voice uncoiled inside her, low and merciless: Your body is mine to punish. Mine to ruin. Mine to worship, when I allow it.
She couldn't. She wouldn't.
Her eyes dropped. "It's fine. Just work."
Something in Ethan's face shuttered. His jaw set, his voice clipped. "Then fine. But don't ask me to keep waiting."
He brushed past her, climbing the stairs. His footsteps faded into the quiet.
Alone
She stayed in the silence, staring at the glass of bourbon he'd left untouched. Her hand shook as she poured it down the sink, the sharp scent rising, clinging to her.
Her reflection in the window stared back: blouse neat, jacket perfect. A woman composed. A woman lying.
When the last of Ethan's footsteps faded above, her knees gave out. She sank to the floor, back against the cabinet, breath breaking apart.
The mark on her throat throbbed. The faint lines at her wrists burned. Her body still hummed with him. And finally, all the feelings she had held tight: fear, ache, need, guilt; rushed through her at once.
Tears blurred her vision, spilling hot before she could stop them. Not for Ethan's distance. Not for the lie.
For the truth: she was already too far gone.