The way he drew the arch of my back, the flush of my chest, the parted slackness of my lips…
He saw a goddess. A messy, broken, leaking goddess, but a divinity nonetheless.
And Anders…
I grabbed the book again, flipping to the very end. A sketch done in haste, maybe while I was sleeping this morning.
It was just my face, asleep on the pillow. But in the background, hovering like a ghost, was a hand brushing a stray hair from my forehead. And on the wrist of that hand was a heavy, expensive watch.
Anders.
The man who dealt in contracts and liability clauses. The man who had cleaned me.
I remembered the feel of the warm cloth and thinking it was a dream at the time. The way he had wiped the shame from my inner thighs with a touch that was clinical but… gentle. Possessive.
They weren't mocking me. They weren't laughing.
"They're hungry," I whispered, the words hanging smoke-like in the cold room.
The realization didn't make me feel safe. Safe was indifference and invisibility. Safe was being the ghostwriter behind the screen who no one wanted to touch.
Hunger was dangerous. Hunger meant they wanted to consume.
And the most terrifying part? The part that made my breath hitch and my nipples harden against the friction of my oversized t-shirt? I wasn't disgusted.
I looked at the drawing of Simon’s hand inside me and touched the rough charcoal paper.
A wetness bloomed between my legs, hot and sudden. It wasn't the heat, not the feverish, sickening crash of yesterday. This was simple, terrifying arousal.
I wanted them to look.
I wanted Daniel’s weight back on top of me, crushing the air from my lungs. I wanted Simon’s ink-stained fingers stretching me open. I wanted Anders to look at me with those cold, assessing blue eyes and decide that I was an asset worth keeping.
Unless you beg.
A sob tore out of my throat, frustrated and confused.
I stood up, unable to sit still with the energy coursing through me. I paced the room, my bare feet silent on the rug.
I was T.L. Rose. I wrote bestsellers about this, about Alphas who were overwhelmed by their instincts, about Omegas who found power in surrender. I wrote the fantasy because I thought I could never have the reality without the humiliation.
But here, in this room, holding this book? Suddenly, the line between humiliation and worship was blurring.
Was it humiliating to be on the floor, or was it humiliating that theysawme?
And if they saw me, really saw me, the way Simon drew me, and still wanted to touch me…
I stopped in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. I looked at myself. Messy hair. Swollen lips. Eyes wide and dark with shock.
I didn't look like a victim. I looked like a woman who had just been ravaged and was debating whether to ask for seconds.
"You are sick," I told my reflection. "They’re the enemy. They broke in."
But my reflection just stared back, flush-cheeked and needy.
I heard a sound from the hallway. A low murmur of voices.
"She's quiet," Simon’s voice. Muffled. Anxious. "Too quiet. What if she's hurting herself?"
