Shadows and Sins

PROLOGUE

Jion POV:

"A wild night in..." she said, her voice thick with lust.

"Just you and I…" he panted, his breath ragged, his hands already roaming her eager body.

"Like the first time we met?" she teased, her fingers trailing down his abs, settling over the pulsing heat of his c**k.

"Mmhm," he half-moaned in response, his body tensing in anticipation.

She knelt before him, locking eyes with his as she slowly wrapped her lips around his thick length. A groan rumbled from his chest as he tangled his fingers into her hair, guiding her movements. Each thrust pushed him deeper into the wet, scorching heat of her mouth, the lewd sounds of her sucking filling the room.

"f**k," he growled, his grip tightening as he drove himself further into her throat. She gagged, eyes watering, but she didn’t stop. Instead, she let her tongue swirl around him, savoring every inch. The sight of her submission, her need to please, sent him over the edge.

With a final thrust, he spilled into her mouth, watching as white liquid dripped down her chin. She swallowed, licking her lips with a satisfied smirk.

"Bend over," he commanded, his voice dark with hunger.

She obeyed without hesitation, placing her hands on the couch and arching her back to present herself to him. He wasted no time, dragging his thick length along her soaked folds before slamming into her with one deep thrust. She gasped, her body stretching around him, accommodating his girth as he set a brutal rhythm.

"Who f***s you better?" he asked between rough thrusts, his hand gripping her hip tightly.

"Unghh… You," she moaned, her fingers digging into the cushions.

"This p***y… who owns this?" His hand reached beneath her, rubbing tight circles over her swollen c**t while he continued pounding into her.

"You… You… Only you!" she cried, her body convulsing as she came hard around him, her walls tightening in desperate spasms.

"That’s right. c*m around my c**k. Coat my c**k with your p***y juice. Your husband can never do this to you," he sneered, thrusting deeper, harder, until she was a trembling mess beneath him.

I watched.

Listened.

Died.

My wife.

Fucked by another man.

In my own house, the one I am still paying for.

On my own couch, the one that maxed out my credit card last month because she made a fuss about not getting it.

The sounds of their pleasure twisted into knives, stabbing me over and over.

I wanted to run towards them. I wanted to rip that man away from her, punch him until his face was unrecognizable, slap her until she realized what she had done to me.

But I stopped myself. Not because I was above such things.

Because I knew—I would only humiliate myself further.

I was no one. A struggling artist, a man with big dreams but empty hands. A man full of vision but incapable of turning them into reality.

Useless.

I deserved this.

My hands shook as I turned away, my vision blurred by unshed tears. I stumbled out of the house, my breath catching in my throat. I drove blindly to my studio, my fingers trembling as they clutched the wheel, my pulse roaring in my ears.

The pain in my chest consumed me, a storm raging inside as I sat before my work table, trying to mold something, anything, out of the kaolin clay. But the images wouldn’t leave my mind. The way she writhed beneath him, the way she cried out his name.

The way she never sounded like that with me.

I snapped.

With a roar, I hurled everything within reach. Sculptures, paints, tools—all crashed to the floor, shattering into useless fragments. The air smelled of dust and failure. My failure. My incompetence. My nothingness.

I kept going, needing to break something, needing the pain to manifest outside my body. I wanted to peel my own skin off, rip out the part of me that had ever loved her. I clawed at my chest, nails digging in, but it wasn’t enough.

My hand throbbed, a deep, searing ache radiating from where I had punched the wooden workbench. I laughed maniacally, the sound hollow, void of any real amusement.

I had not only destroyed my studio.

I had damaged the one thing that gave me purpose—the hand I used to create. The hand I used to earn a living.

The only thing left of me that was worth anything.

What a perfect day…

To climb to the roof…

To step into the void…

And let go.