HERA
The morning light spilled softly across my vanity, catching in the strands of my hair as Anisha carefully pulled the comb through it.
But my mind was somewhere else—still back in that room with Atticus, still pressed against that wall as he plummeted into me with hunger.
My folds began to moisten but not in the same way my heart fluttered despite myself, an unwelcome reminder of feelings I’d sworn to keep buried. I knew he felt something too, a pull neither of us seemed able to control, though he tried with everything in him to resist.
And I understood why.
To him, I was still the villain of his story, a constant reminder that he lost his wife. Despite everything I’d done—every effort I’d made to prove myself as anything but the villain in his story—he still couldn’t see me a
