Page 86 of Make You Mine

There’s no way they won’t know now. One look at my girl’s body and there’s no doubt who she belongs to.

But I’m not done with them yet. No.

They asked for it, I’m just delivering.

Because if my girl thinks she has a plan, I don’t sit and wait around.

I counterattack.

Here’s what I think: I think it’s time he pays. I think it’s time they both do. I think it’s time to meet my naughty little teacher.

And it’s time for her to know what her older brother’s been up to. For things to blow up in their faces.

God, she’s so beautiful. I want to lick her from head to toe, push my cock into every one of her holes, in case the message I’m sending isn’t clear enough. Madelyn is mine.

But I’m a gentleman after all. So, I’ll sit and watch from the shadows.

And tomorrow—tomorrow she’s in for another surprise.

26

MADELYN

There’s always that feeling of guilt in the morning after doing something you know you’re not supposed to do.

It weighs on your shoulders and makes your stomach clench. You cannot escape it.

It makes you feel dirty, makes you want to wash it off.

As I pull my nightgown over my head and toss it on the toilet seat, I groan.

I can’t believe I broke my own promise of not involving myself with Kayden ever again.

But he made me feel so good, and he’s so good with his mouth and fingers.

Opening the shower with my eyes half-open, I walk into the small cubicle and let the rain wash over this familiar guilt. I rub my hands with some soap and press them against my body, my hand instinctively traveling down my belly and in between my legs, rubbing myself clean. I look down at my fingers along my needy core, sinning again, and my eyes go wide.

“What the hell?”

I stare down in pure horror before turning off the tap and rushing to look at myself in the small mirror in front of the sink.

My body’s covered in ink.

My center is literally soaking in it. Black scribbles across my bikini lines, almost making underwear of their own.

A light bulb clicks in my head, and I stare at the nightgown on the toilet seat—there’s no underwear with it. I woke up without underwear.

The scribbles don’t mean anything to me as I look at my own body. The same scribbles dance along my thighs and my breasts. Over and over and over.

I rub a finger over one of the inscriptions. It’s not ink from a pen.

It feels more like a sticker. Maybe one of those temporary tattoos.

I look up and into the mirror, gasping as I understand the sheer number of these tattoos on my body. A couple of dozen, maybe even a hundred. And I notice one more thing. The scribble isn’t a scribble anymore, it’s a word but written backwards, so I can only read it in the mirror.

The one tattooed between my belly and my pelvic line is larger than the others.

Devon.