Marked by the King

Chapter Eleven – What Happens After

Emilia’s POV

⸻

I didn’t want to wake up.

Not because I was tired.

Not even because my muscles ached or my eyes felt like sandpaper or the pillow beneath my cheek had gone damp sometime in the night.

I didn’t want to wake up…

because that meant letting the dream go.

And I wasn’t ready.

Not even close.

⸻

It had stayed with me—clung to my skin, curled around my ribs, pulsed between my thighs like a secret only I was allowed to keep.

The way he touched me in it.

The way he looked at me.

Possessive. Reverent. Destroying.

It hadn’t been gentle.

And yet, I had never felt safer.

⸻

The silence of the apartment felt too loud in contrast.

The radiator hissed faintly. A distant horn honked outside. Pipes groaned behind the walls.

But none of it could fill the space he left behind.

My body still ached in places that had never truly been touched. I shifted, thighs rubbing together under the thin blanket, and felt the flush rise again.

God.

I shouldn’t be this affected.

It wasn’t real.

He hadn’t touched me. He hadn’t said my name. He hadn’t pinned me down and made me beg.

But my body couldn’t tell the difference.

And maybe… neither could my heart.

⸻

I sat up slowly, legs folded beneath me on the worn couch.

The morning light was soft—gray and diluted, like the city hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to offer yet.

My blanket slipped from my shoulders. I didn’t reach for it.

Instead, I looked at my wrist.

The bracelet still circled my skin. Smooth. Cool. Deliberate.

I hadn’t taken it off. Not once. Not since the day it appeared like a ghost gift with no note and no explanation.

And now?

Now it felt like a brand.

⸻

I moved through my routine in slow motion.

Shower. Braid. Clothes.

Every step felt like it belonged to someone else. Like I was acting out a script written by the version of myself that still believed in safe choices.

The version that hadn’t been marked by a man’s gaze without a single touch.

That version felt far away now.

Distant.

Like someone I used to know.

⸻

The subway was unusually warm, crammed with people in various stages of exhaustion.

I stood near the door, one hand gripping the bar above my head, the other wrapped around the strap of my bag.

No one looked at me.

But I still felt it.

That awareness. That hum beneath my skin. That whisper that maybe, just maybe… I wasn’t alone.

I glanced toward the far end of the car.

Just a man in a coat, checking his phone.

Not him.

Of course not.

And yet my chest didn’t loosen until I stepped off.

⸻

By the time I reached the staff locker room, I was sweating.

Not from the walk. Not from the air.

From the tension that lived between my shoulders now. From the quiet war inside me that never let me rest.

I changed into my uniform without a word, eyes fixed on the tiled floor.

Avoided the mirror.

I knew what I looked like.

I could feel it.

The flush in my cheeks. The puffiness beneath my eyes. The softness in my thighs that wasn’t entirely physical.

I didn’t want to see it reflected back.

Didn’t want to see his effect on me.

⸻

The cafeteria was already buzzing when I stepped inside.

Trays clattered. Steam hissed from the kitchen. Someone laughed too loudly near the juice machine.

I moved through it like a ghost.

Apron. Gloves. Sink.

Avoided the windows.

Avoided the cameras.

But none of it helped.

Because I still felt him.

Watching.

Waiting.

Wanting.

⸻

I couldn’t explain how I knew.

There was no logic to it.

But some part of me—some instinct buried deeper than thought—felt when his eyes found me.

My spine would stiffen.

My breath would catch.

And the part of me I hated the most?

It would ache.

⸻

Lizzy joined me by the sinks just before nine.

She hummed as she pulled on her gloves, bumping her hip into mine like always.

But then she paused.

I didn’t look at her. Just kept rinsing a tray that had already been clean.

“You good?” she asked after a beat.

“Mmhmm.”

“Uh-huh. That’s convincing.”

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t respond.

Not immediately.

But I felt her gaze.

I felt the moment she really looked.

And I hated how quickly she saw it.

Something.

Anything.

Too much.

⸻

“You’ve been off for a few days now,” she said, voice low.

I turned to her. “I’m tired. That’s all.”

She gave me a look. “That’s not tired. That’s… haunted.”

“I’m not haunted.”

“Emilia.”

I froze.

Because no one ever says your name like that unless they mean it.

I met her eyes.

And she saw it.

Whatever it was.

She exhaled slowly. “Is it Logan?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

A beat passed.

Then she asked the question I wasn’t ready for.

“Is it someone else?”

⸻

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because if I opened my mouth, I was afraid of what would come out.

Not a name.

Not even a denial.

But a confession.

One I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

That I liked it.

The dreams.

The attention.

Him.

⸻

Lizzy studied me for another long moment. Then nodded.

She didn’t press.

Just reached into her apron pocket, handed me a wrapped granola bar, and said, “Eat something. You’re walking around like a ghost.”

⸻

I ate half of it.

Mostly out of guilt.

But even then, I couldn’t taste it.

Because all I could taste was memory.

Leather.

Smoke.

Luca’s mouth.

The second half of my shift dragged like wet concrete.

Every movement felt wrong.

Too fast. Too slow. Too exposed.

I dropped a tray of glasses just before lunch rush, and the crash echoed like a gunshot across the cafeteria.

Everyone turned.

Lizzy cursed and ducked to help me.

I didn’t move right away.

I just stood there, heart pounding, ears ringing, chest tight. My hands shook—not from embarrassment, but from the sudden, irrational fear that he had seen.

Not Logan.

Luca.

⸻

“Hey,” Lizzy said softly, pressing a glass into my hand. “It’s okay.”

I nodded, but the movement was stiff. Fragile.

“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “Just slippery.”

But the lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

Because I wasn’t scared of falling.

I was scared of being watched.

Of being seen.

Of wanting it.

⸻

I kept my head down for the rest of the rush.

Worked fast. Didn’t talk.

Didn’t look toward the mezzanine.

But even with my eyes focused on the sink, I felt it.

That pressure.

Like heat crawling up my spine.

Like a breath I couldn’t catch.

Like something more than human staring straight through me.

⸻

He was watching.

I didn’t need to check.

I didn’t need proof.

My body knew.

My skin tightened. My pulse throbbed low in my stomach. The back of my neck tingled with electricity I couldn’t explain.

And all I could think about… was the dream.

The sound of his voice.

The weight of his body.

The grip of his hands on my hips as he claimed me like he had every right to.

As if I wanted him to.

As if I’d begged him to.

God.

I nearly dropped another tray just thinking about it.

⸻

By the time I made it to the break room, I was sweating through my uniform and shaking so badly I had to sit down before I fainted.

The door clicked shut behind me, and for the first time in hours, I breathed.

Or tried to.

It came out shallow. Ragged.

I pressed my hands to my thighs and stared at the floor.

And tried to find the version of myself who used to be okay.

The one who didn’t jump at shadows or dream about being tied to a man she’d barely spoken to.

But that girl was gone.

Replaced by someone I didn’t recognize.

Someone who… wanted more.

⸻

I stayed longer in the breakroom than I was supposed to.

No one came looking.

Eventually, I peeled myself off the chair, splashed water on my face, and rejoined the cafeteria like nothing had happened.

But the crack inside me?

It had spread.

⸻

The afternoon lull came and went.

Lizzy winked at me as she passed with a tray of coffee cups, mouthing eat the rest of that granola bar, and I gave her a weak smile in return.

But it was empty.

A placeholder.

Because inside, I was unraveling.

Quietly. Slowly. Completely.

⸻

Around 3:00 p.m., I glanced up.

I hadn’t meant to.

My body moved before my brain could stop it.

And there he was.

Luca.

Three floors up, behind the mezzanine glass.

Suit immaculate. Hands in his pockets. Back straight.

Eyes locked on mine.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, the distance didn’t matter.

I felt him like he was standing right in front of me.

And my body reacted without permission.

Breath hitched. Thighs clenched. Skin flushed.

I looked away fast.

Too fast.

Pretended to drop something.

Pretended it hadn’t happened.

But it had.

And I knew…

So did he.

⸻

I got through the rest of my shift on autopilot.

One task at a time.

One minute at a time.

One thought circling over and over like a loop I couldn’t escape:

He’s watching me.

And worse?

I want him to.

⸻

By the time I reached the locker room again, I could barely stand.

Not from exhaustion.

From restraint.

From holding back the scream in my chest that wanted to ask—

Why me? Why like this? Why do I want to be owned by someone I should be afraid of?

⸻

I changed in silence.

Fumbled with the buttons of my coat.

Caught sight of myself in the mirror for the first time all day.

And froze.

Because I looked…

Different.

Not prettier. Not stronger. Not anything obvious.

But… known.

Like I’d been touched in a way no one could see but everyone might recognize if they looked long enough.

I ran a hand through my hair. Tugged the braid tighter.

Tried to erase it.

But the truth was already written.

⸻

Outside, the city had started to chill.

A wind picked up between the buildings, carrying the scent of roasting peanuts and exhaust fumes.

I turned my collar up and walked fast, boots clicking too loudly on the sidewalk.

My heart wouldn’t settle.

My pulse wouldn’t slow.

I kept glancing over my shoulder like I expected someone to follow me.

And I didn’t know if I wanted that someone to be Logan…

Or Luca.

⸻

When I reached the corner, I stopped.

For no reason.

No red light. No car.

Just… instinct.

And that’s when I felt it again.

That hum.

That weight.

Eyes.

I turned slowly.

Upward.

And at the far end of the tower’s roofline, I thought I saw movement.

A figure.

Black coat. Still. Sharp.

And even though I couldn’t see his face from here…

I knew.

It was him.

Watching me leave.

Letting me go.

But not for long.

⸻

I crossed the street on unsteady legs.

Tried not to let the heat bloom in my stomach.

Tried not to let the memory of the dream slide down my spine like silk.

But it did.

And I welcomed it.

The apartment was quiet when I got home.

Not the soft kind of quiet, like peace.

The hollow kind.

Like absence.

Like something was missing, but had never been here in the first place.

⸻

I locked the door behind me. Slid the bolt. Hooked the chain.

Habit.

Reflex.

But even that didn’t feel like enough tonight.

Because tonight, I wasn’t afraid of someone breaking in.

I was afraid of how much I wanted someone to.

⸻

I dropped my bag by the door and peeled off my coat with shaking hands.

The air inside felt warmer than it should have, like the heat had kicked on too high. Or maybe it was just me—my blood running too hot with everything I hadn’t said, hadn’t done, hadn’t admitted.

The bracelet was still snug on my wrist.

I should’ve taken it off.

Should’ve thrown it in a drawer. Or out the window.

But instead, I walked to the sink, poured a glass of water, and pressed the metal against the cold rim of the glass like it could ground me.

It didn’t.

⸻

I sipped the water in silence. The radiator hissed behind me. A siren wailed in the distance.

But the only sound I really heard?

Was his voice.

In the dream.

Say it.

You’re mine now.

God.

⸻

I went to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.

The sheets were still tangled from the night before.

I didn’t fix them.

Just sat.

Still.

Breathing through the ache I didn’t know how to name.

⸻

I reached for my bedside notebook. The one I used to fill with grocery lists and random scribbles and half-finished poems from another life.

I flipped to a blank page.

And stared at it.

Then slowly—slowly—I wrote one word.

Luca.

That was it.

Just his name.

Curved across the page in my small, careful print like it was a prayer.

Or a confession.

Or a warning.

⸻

I stared at the ink for a long time.

I don’t know how long.

Long enough for the air to still. For the radiator to cycle off. For the room to dim.

And then I flipped the page.

Wrote it again.

Luca.

And again.

Luca.

My fingers were trembling.

But I didn’t stop.

Because it was the only thing that made sense.

⸻

Eventually, I put the notebook down.

Folded myself beneath the sheets.

Turned off the lamp.

And closed my eyes.

⸻

But I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

I just waited.

For the next dream.

For the next step.

For the next moment I wouldn’t be able to undo.

⸻

And when I finally drifted, his name was still in my mouth.

Not in fear.

Not in warning.

But in surrender.