Ivan.
Three days.
Three damn days since our last encounter. Three days since I last saw her face, her eyes, her lips. She ran away from me.
I should be furious. I am furious.
She’s angry that I marked her, so what? She’s mine. She belongs to me. I only claimed what’s rightfully mine.
But instead of staying, she ran.
She ran like I was the villain in her story.
I clenched my jaw, the memory of that night flashing again — the way she looked at me after I marked her, her expression caught between betrayal and something else she refused to admit.
And now she’s gone.
The house feels emptier without her. It’s pathetic, but even her scent used to linger in the halls — soft, sweet, teasing me every damn second. Now it’s gone. I’d never admit it to anyone, not even to myself, but it’s dri
