The morning sunlight filtered in through Amelia’s sheer curtains, painting gold lines across the sheets tangled at the foot of her bed. Her legs ached—no, her entire body ached—with the weight of what had happened last night. The bruises Enzo left weren’t visible yet, but she could feel them. Every place his hands had touched throbbed with memory.
He was still there.
Lying beside her.
Half-draped in the sheets, one muscular arm slung carelessly over her waist as though he had a right to sleep peacefully in her bed after the storm he brought with him.
Amelia stared at the ceiling, eyes dry and wide.
Everything inside her was tangled. Not just her limbs, not just the marks on her skin—but the emotions.
Last night had been... punishment. It was possession. Dominance. But it wasn’t love.
