The words had not softened anything.
If anything, they had sharpened the edge.
Elena felt it two days later when Victoria left for a late client dinner and the house fell into the familiar private quiet. Marcus found her in the kitchen. He did not speak at first. He only backed her against the counter, lifted her sweater, and looked at the map of bruises across her skin with the same focused intensity as before—only now the intensity carried the full weight of everything they had said to each other.
His palm settled over the darkest cluster on her ribs. The pressure made every mark flare.
“I keep thinking about it,” he said, voice low. “About filling you until it takes. About watching you walk around this house carrying something that belongs to both of us while no one else knows. The
