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With the harsh light and the blood boldly shining against his neck, I let the words slip out before I’d realised they were there. It was the start of another wave of aching softness that had no right invading me when I was marking him for his crimes.
He was so needy, grinding against me. If he pushed any harder, he would send me over the edge. I refused to give him that.
This was a punishment for his arrogance. My fascination had nothing to do with it.
I dug into the soft skin of his collarbone, ending the trail, and watching the blood gather along the hollow of his throat.
How could he be even more beautiful in the half-light, shaking with need, covered in blood? Scarlet suited him perfectly.
I hated him with such a burning passion that I licked the tips of my fingers when I pulled them back. Thick and warm, the bitter iron taste made me sick with hunger. It could be so easy. One kiss, one stroke, and I could have him falling apart in my arms all over again.
I pushed open his leather vest, wiping the blood from my hands, streaking his pristine white shirt with more evidence of his crime. He watched me with wide eyes, not moving an inch.
He was a monster for doing this to me, for turning me into a trembling mess of wants and needs. I was an animal, so ready to drag him behind the bushes surrounding us so I could fuck him until there was nothing left of either of us.
I grabbed his lapels and shook him, making sure he was listening. He looked so lost, so full of desire, panting at me. We mirrored each other. I couldn’t stand how deeply I could feel him in my bones. I’d stained his neck, but he’d etched himself into my body the day we first met, and I was only now remembering how profoundly he’d buried himself inside me.
“You have no idea what you’ve started,” I growled, pushing him off me, his hands freeing my hips.
He stumbled back in shock as I let him go, like this meant nothing to me. I was so wet it was spilling from me, hot against my thigh. All he had to do was touch me, and I’d be gone. One more second of weakness and I would throw it all away. Part of me was yelling at him to make a move, to jump me, to give me no choice but to bend to his lips. That was the part of me I’d been working so hard to crush.
Bastard.
I walked away, pretending I couldn’t hear him rasp my name over the click of hard heels against the marble slabs. He could sort himself out.
I didn’t want to give him anything else. He’d already seen too much. I’d opened up a deep twisted cavern of hate inside me, and he’d looked in and still wanted more.
My fingers burned, cramping with tension. I curled them into my palms, hiding the streaks of blood not caught by Max’s shirt. I shouldn’t have let him in, shouldn’t have answered his call. I should have held on and let him die.
I slipped back inside the ballroom. No one noticed I’d disappeared. The blinding light and noise of the party were a painful contrast to the shadowed darkness that held Max and I as we enmeshed ourselves in our vortex of lust and violence.
I had to tell Dom and Harry I was leaving. I didn’t want them to worry, but I needed to go. I couldn’t be here when Max showed his face. I was already tempted to stay with him and lick up the mess I’d made. He would find his own way out. It wasn’t my concern. I might have been the one to scratch him, but he’d offered himself to me. He practically asked me to ruin him. He could find his own excuses for why he had been marked at his own engagement party.
I needed a drink and a car out of here. If anything else was going down with Max, I didn’t want to be around to see it.
Max
Iwatched her leave, standing, gasping, my body still shuddering from her intensity.
I had to see the evidence. I wanted to know how she marked me.
I’d noticed a private bathroom on the other side of the hall when I first followed Cat. I slipped out of the glasshouse, checking that the coast was clear before darting across the hall and slamming the door behind me.
Door locked, my fingers trembled as I lowered my collar and stared at myself in the mirror in fascination.
It was beautiful. My throat was scarlet, stained with blood. I knew from the pain radiating from my neck that it would bruise, that she’d left evidence of her love for me. It was the scratches that really humbled me.
I lifted my hands, lining up each one of my fingers with the wounds, trembling in awe at where she’d started, where she’d drawn first blood. From there, I traced the path down my neck. Her appreciation for the way my skin bent under her nails was toxic. She had watched as she carved into me, her face bright with desire.
I’d seen hundreds of women look at me like I was a god, but in the glasshouse, it wasn’t about me. It didn’t even matter that it was my skin. She wanted to hurt, cause damage, and I was her canvas, hers to paint as she pleased.
It was beautiful, just like she said. My bruised skin highlighted her rage. She fed me what she held in her heart. It was mine.
I licked my lips while looking in the mirror. I could still taste the warmth of her breath. She was so close, I almost had her. She would have kissed me if I’d held on. She would have sucked the last of my breath into her lungs, but I let myself go too easily. I had to lean into her, and that was my undoing.
It was so romantic that I could have drowned in her.
I fingered my shoulders, her finish line. She had growled as she gripped the ledge of my collarbone, eight identical curved wounds biting deep. Her marks.
