My neck first, obvious and impossible to ignore. Along my collarbone, down the slope of my chest. Purples and reds invarious stages of fading, layered over softer bruises that look newer, more tender.
Some marks are distinct enough that I can see the shape of them, the curve of teeth pressed into skin. Others are faint, barely healed, like echoes.
They worked me over.
And not gently.
I lift my hand, fingers hovering before tracing one mark just below my throat. My skin reacts instantly, a shiver racing through me.
A strange mix of emotions rushes up all at once. Shock at the evidence staring back at me. Heat that has nothing to do with a heat cycle and everything to do with memory. Pride, sharp and unexpected.
And something dangerously close to affection, so intense it scares me a little.
This was wild.
Days of losing myself to instinct and scent and hands and mouths and voices layered over one another. I remember flashes more than full scenes.
Fingers digging into my hips. Being pinned, lifted, surrounded. Growls in my ear. The way my name sounded coming from different mouths, roughened, claimed. Being wanted so completely, there was no room left for anything else.
I swallow hard and turn toward the toilet to pee.
Relief comes immediately, but it’s followed by a sharp sting that makes me hiss and brace my hand against the wall. My body flinches on instinct, breath catching in my throat.
Okay. Yep. That tracks.
I squeeze my eyes shut, riding it out. My body is still recovering. That much is painfully obvious.
For half a second, panic flares anyway. What did I do? What does this mean now? How do I face them with a clearhead, knowing what I let myself become, what I wanted without hesitation?
Then I inhale.
Their scent is still on me. Thick. Familiar. Wrapped into my skin like it belongs there. It settles my racing thoughts, smoothing the edges before they can spiral too far.
It calms me.
That realization might be the wildest part of all.
I wash my hands, splash cool water on my face, watching my expression slowly come back into focus. My eyes look tired, yes, but clearer than they have in days. I reach for a towel, wrapping it around myself just as a knock sounds at the door.
“Norah?”
Dorian’s voice.
“I’m decent,” I call back, throat a little rough.
The door opens slowly, like he’s afraid I might spook if he moves too fast. He fills the doorway, looking as exhausted as I feel.
His hair is a mess, curling in every direction. His beard has grown in thick and uneven, shadowing his jaw. Dark circles sit under his eyes, evidence of too little sleep, but his gaze is focused on me immediately.
Concerned. Present.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Just wanted to check on you.”
I nod, leaning back against the sink, suddenly aware of how unsteady I still feel. “What day is it?”
The question clearly catches him off guard. He blinks once, then a faint smile curves his mouth. “Friday.”
Friday.
