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“I don’t want you to apologize to me for the way you coped with what life dealt you,” I say softly, “because I see nothing wrong with the way you are. A little rough around the edges, and far from perfect, but...”

“Lucky,” he breathes, shaking his head again as if dislodging the range of emotions. “I’m fucking lucky, if you coming back to me is any indication.”

He pulls me to the edge of the couch, palming the back of my head and covering my mouth with his; our tongues dance to their familiar tune, frissons of heat and bright light crackling in my core, passion and love sizzling in my soul.

When we part, our breaths tumble heavily from our mouths, and he smooths his thumb over my mouth.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry I didn’t tell you. You deserved to know.”

I swallow, nodding, even though the memory feels like a slap to the face. Skimming my hand over his side, I frown, something still bothering me. “Did she do this?”

His eyes follow my fingers as they smooth over the puckered skin, and he nods slightly. “Indirectly, but yes.”

My chest pinches, aching for the damage my parents inflicted on him. For not even being their blood, they sure did do a number on him.

“I hate knowing she ever touched you,” I admit softly, knowing I won’t be able to move past it until it’s hurled out in the open. “Hate knowing she ever got to see you like this.”

“She didn’t,” he interjects, catching my hand, flattening it on his skin. “No one but you, little one. What can I do to make you believe that?”

I shake my head, declining that he even needs to prove it, saying that there are just some things that only time can help work through. But he doesn’t accept that, leaning back and shoving his hand into his pocket, pulling out the utility knife he keeps tucked inside.

“Mark me,” he says, holding out the blade.

My hand recoils from him completely, falling into my lap. “God, no! I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yes, you do.” He grabs my hand, pushing the knife into it and curling my fingers around the handle. “Hurt me so I can feel what it was like for you.”

I hesitate, the knife heavy in my palm, the metal cool against my skin. Fear seizes my throat, making me tense up as my mind tries to decide if this is a good idea or not.

Best case scenario: if we divorce and he hooks up with someone else down the line, at least they’ll see another girl’s initials carved into his skin.

Worst case: I cut too deep, and he bleeds out and dies.

Still, it’s hard for me to pass up such a rare opportunity, and maybe inflicting a little pain will help me fully move on.

Flipping open the blade, I nod, pushing up off the couch. He grins wickedly, leaning back on the coffee table; I get up, letting the blanket fall around me, and straddle his hips, trying to ignore the immediate arousal stiffening beneath my ass.

“You want a shallow, rough stroke,” he says, guiding me to his left pectoral muscle, pressing the tip of the knife into his skin. “Something that’ll draw a little blood and scar, but not, you know. Kill me.”

I swallow, throat tight, pressing down with a little force as he gently coaches me; the tip pierces a layer of skin, and his praise makes my pussy pulse.

“Now, flick your wrist and finish the letter,” he says, clenching his jaw. The cut opens some previously healed scar tissue, nicking the edge of a site on the last line of my first initial, but he doesn’t react aside from the clenching.

Blood beads in the shape of an E, and I stare at it for a beat, mesmerized by the bright crimson color; before he can sit up and stop me, I’m dipping down and pressing the flat of my tongue against it, savoring the metallic tang, something primal responding in kind to the taste.

I don’t know what it is, exactly, that happens when his blood touches my tongue; maybe it’s because he’s drawn mine so many times that my body is just happy to repay the favor, or maybe it’s something deeper than that.

It’s not the first time I’ve tasted him, but there’s something different in it now. A chaotic desperation in the action, and the vulnerability in the situation sets my entire soul on fire.

“Jesus,” Kal chokes, his hand flying to my hair as I push up, sitting back on him, and toss the knife to the floor. “Fuck, I’m so in love with you, Elena Ricci. Do you believe me now?”

“Anderson,” I say, correcting him with a grin. “I filed to have it changed legally. Don’t want to be a Ricci when the business goes under.”

His eyebrows raise, his entire body freezing as he takes in my sly expression. Eyes narrowing, he tugs at the ends of my hair. “What did you do?”

I shrug, feigning innocence. “Maybe Papá should’ve learned not to spill all his secrets to his family members, since anyone can email the news stations these days.”

Kal twists his fingers in my hair, sitting up so our mouths are almost touching. “Did you rat?”

I fold my lips together, knowing how people in this world feel about informants. And yet, since I’m leaving the world anyway, I couldn’t give a fuck less about their opinion.

Still, it’s nice when Kal sweeps me in for a passionate kiss again, plundering until I’m a shivering mess, stealing each of my breaths for his own. “You’re crazy,” he says, pulling back. “Hope you liked being my captive before, because you’re damn sure not going anywhere now.”

“So, no annulment?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

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