More unforgivable than what I've already done.
I touch the scars on my knuckles from that night eight years ago.
I'd punched the wall after, angry at the messy kill, at the witness, at the complication.
Now that complication is in my bed, wearing my marks, calling me Sir.
Judge Deveraux, your daughter is exactly where you never wanted her to be: in my hands.
And she's begging for it.
Chapter 3
Selene
I wake to pain.
Not the sharp, immediate pain of injury, but the deep, satisfying ache of being thoroughly used.
My wrists burn where the rope held them.
My throat is raw.
Between my legs, I'm swollen and sensitive.
Every mark is a reminder of what happened, of what I let him do to me.
Of what Ibeggedhim to do to me.
The room is different from last night.
Sunlight filters through heavy curtains, revealing elegant furniture that probably costs more than my annual salary.
The sheets beneath me are silk, soft against my abraded skin.
I'm clean—someone bathed me while I was unconscious.
The thought should disturb me.
Instead, it makes me clench my thighs together.
A silk robe lies across the foot of the bed.
Black, of course.
There's a note on top in masculine handwriting:
Breakfast. Then we continue.
- C
C.
Cassius.
Cassius Wolfe.
The name sends a shiver through me.
