The touch was feather-light at first—almost hesitant, like someone testing if I would stir. A fingertip circled one nipple slowly, deliberately, raising it to a tight peak despite the cool air on my damp skin. My breath caught. My body woke faster than my mind could keep up.
I wasn't dreaming.
My eyes snapped open.
The room was dark, only a faint silver glow from the hallway light slipping under the door. Shadows pooled across the walls. And there, kneeling at the edge of the bed, was a silhouette I knew too well.
Victor.
His face was half in shadow, but those eyes—sharp, unblinking—locked onto mine the second I moved. No surprise. No guilt. Just that same chilling calm from downstairs.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"What the hell are you doing?" The words came hoarse, barely a whisper. I yanked the sheet up to cover myself, but it was too late—he had already seen everything. Touched everything.
He didn't pull away.
Instead, his hand flattened against my breast, warm, possessive, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak again. A deliberate claim.
"You were asleep," he said quietly, voice low, even, like we were discussing the weather. "Vulnerable. Beautiful. I couldn't resist."
I shoved at his wrist. He didn't budge. His grip tightened just enough to remind me how strong he was.
"Get out," I hissed. "Elena is downstairs. People are still leaving. You can't—"
"They're gone." He leaned closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. The scent of his cologne—dark, expensive, infuriatingly familiar—wrapped around me. "The house is quiet now. Just us."
My pulse roared in my ears. Part terror. Part heat I hated myself for feeling. The same twisted fire that had been simmering since the first time I'd caught him looking at me like I was his to unravel.
"You reassured her," I blurted, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "You told her nothing happened. That it was all in her head."
His lips curved—just the barest hint of a smile. Not warm. Never warm.
He slid onto the bed, one knee pressing between my legs, forcing them apart just enough to make my breath hitch. The sheet twisted between us, a flimsy barrier I wanted to throw away.
"But you..." His free hand trailed down my stomach, slow, unhurried. "You already know the truth. You've known since the moment you let me touch you in that hallway."
I swallowed hard. "I didn't let you—"
"You didn't stop me." His fingers dipped lower, brushing the sensitive skin above where I ached despite myself. "And you won't stop me now."
I grabbed his wrist again—harder. "Victor. Stop."
He paused. Actually paused. Eyes searching mine in the dim light.
"Do you want me to stop?" His voice softened, almost gentle. "Say it. Mean it. And I'll leave."
The room felt too small. Too hot. My body betrayed me—nipples stiff, thighs trembling, that traitorous pulse throbbing between my legs.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
His smile returned—slow, victorious. He leaned down, lips brushing my ear.
"That's what I thought."
His hand moved again, bolder this time, sliding between my thighs. Fingers found slick heat. A low sound escaped me—half moan, half protest.
"Shh," he murmured against my neck. "You'll wake the house."
He kissed the hollow of my throat, then lower. Teeth grazed my collarbone. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard enough to make my back arch off the bed.
Guilt crashed over me like cold water—Elena's face, her calm smile, her quiet question: Have you ever betrayed someone, Lys?
But the fire was louder.
Victor's fingers curled inside me, stroking in a rhythm that made my hips lift against his hand. He knew exactly what he was doing. Exactly how to unravel me.
"You're mine tonight," he whispered, voice rough now. "And tomorrow... we'll deal with the rest."
I should have fought harder.
His fingers were still inside me—slow, deep, curling against that spot that made my vision blur—when the words finally clawed out.
"Victor… stop."
This time I meant it.
My hand clamped around his wrist—harder than before—nails digging crescents into his skin. I shoved his hand away. The sudden emptiness between my legs made me gasp. Slick fingers slipped free with a soft, wet sound that echoed in the quiet room like an accusation.
He froze above me, breath ragged, eyes searching mine in the dim light.
For a heartbeat neither of us moved.
Then I pushed at his chest—both hands now—with real force.
"Get off me."
He didn't resist. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his weight, sliding back until he was kneeling at the edge of the bed. His cock was still hard, straining against open trousers, glistening at the tip. He made no move to cover himself. Just watched me, chest rising and falling, jaw tight.
I scrambled upright, yanking the sheet to my chest like armor. My skin felt too hot, too exposed. Shame, arousal, grief crashing together until I could barely breathe.
"I can't do this," I said, voice shaking. "Not anymore."
He exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled. "You were about to come on my fingers, Alyssa. You kissed me back. Don't pretend—"
"I'm not pretending." I cut him off, sharper than I meant. Tears burned behind my eyes. "I kissed you because I'm weak. Because you make me weak. But I'm done letting you."
He reached for me—slow, careful, palm open like approaching something wild.
I flinched back.
"Don't."
His hand dropped. Silence stretched—thick, suffocating.
I pulled my knees to my chest, arms wrapped around them. The sheet slipped a little; I didn't care. Modesty felt pointless now.
"You reassured her," I whispered. "You looked her in the eye and lied. And then you came here. To me. Like I'm… like I'm the consolation prize when she's asleep."
His expression flickered—something raw flashing through the calm mask for the first time.
"That's not—"
"It is." My voice cracked. "You confuse me, Victor. You make me hate myself. Every time you touch me I feel like I'm disappearing. Like the person I used to be—the one who wouldn't do this—is just… gone."
He looked down at his hands—still wet from me—then back up. "I don't want you to disappear."
"Then stop making me." The words came out raw. "I need to leave this house. I need space. I need to breathe without feeling like I'm drowning in guilt every time I look at you. Or at her."
He didn't argue. Didn't try to charm or seduce or reason. Just sat there, shoulders tense, memorizing the shape of my refusal.
"I'm a mess," I continued, quieter now. "You're a mess. We're poison together. And I can't keep indulging this… whatever this is. It's killing me."
A long beat passed. My heart thundered in my chest, my pulse raging in my ears. The room was heavy with the heat of our presence, the lingering scent of sex and fear and obsession.
Then he nodded—slow.
"Okay."
He stood. Tucked himself back into his trousers with careful, deliberate movements. Buttoned his shirt. Straightened his cuffs like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just had his fingers buried inside me minutes ago.
But his hands were shaking. Just slightly.
He looked at me one last time—eyes dark, unreadable, something close to pain flickering there.
"If you need me to stay away," he said quietly, "I will."
I didn't answer.
He turned. Walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the knob.
"I meant what I said earlier," he murmured without looking back. "You're not the consolation prize. You're the only thing that feels real."
Then he was gone. The door clicked shut—soft, final.
I sat there in the dark, sheet clutched to my chest, thighs still trembling, skin still flushed, heart hammering so hard it hurt.
I curled onto my side and pulled the covers over my head.
I tried—God, I tried—to convince myself I'd done the right thing.
But the ache between my legs hadn't faded. The ghost of his fingers lingered.