Stupid. Again.
Nayla’s body slid down, limbs giving out under the weight of fury. Anger at herself. At her weak body. At the humiliating desire. At the betrayal of her own flesh, surrendering to a primitive longing she thought she’d buried long ago.
“Bastard,” she hissed under her breath.
Her hand reached for the vase on the table and hurled it against the wall. The crash brought a fleeting sense of relief. Then silence returned, louder than before.
She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.
She’d sworn never to let anyone access that part of her again. The fragile part. The blind part. And yet, this morning, she had watched herself be stripped bare, piece by piece.
Not by love. By lust.
And that was more devastating.
If it had been her heart that faltered, Nayla could still forgive
