Page 65 of Red Dreams

The bruises on my ribs are a mottled mess of colors, some fresh and others fading into sickly yellows and greens. Each one is a reminder of a boot or a fist, of pain exploding through my body like a supernova.

And then there are the marks you can't see, the ones that run soul-deep. The feeling of hands where they shouldn't be, of hot breath and hissed threats. The humiliation and degradation sinking into my bones like venom.

I meet my own gaze in the mirror, hardly recognizing myself. Then I tear my eyes away and turn on the shower, the pipes groaning in protest. Under the spray of the shower, I scrub my skin until it's raw and my entire body is as red as my wounds.

When I emerge, dressed in my favorite oversized T-shirt and leggings, Kaden waits for me in the living room. He's stripped off his wet shirt, his chest bare and gleaming in the low light.

On him, scars are beautiful. I couldn’t picture him any other way.

And I wonder what he thinks about my body now.

“I forgot to tell you,” I say after clearing my throat. “Cassie’s staying in the lighthouse.”

He nods. “I know. It’s probably for the best. I don’t expect her to play nice with others right now.”

Kaden gives me a slow survey, taking in the T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder and the leggings that cling to me. I feel exposed under his scrutiny, all too aware of the marks marring my skin underneath the fabric.

But I don’t see disgust or pity in his eyes. Only a fierce protectiveness and insatiable desire that always manages to stop me from remembering to meet my basic needs, like breathing.

He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush against the tattoo on my throat. I shiver at his touch even as I recoil.

“I wish I could kill the person who did this to you,” he says. “Make them suffer for every bruise, every cut they put on your body.”

“Don’t.” I turn my face away. “We both know you'd burn the world down to protect what's yours. But she's yours, too.”

His fingers trace the tattoo, possession competing with fury in his touch. “And that's why she's still breathing. But if she ever touches you again...”

The threat lingers unfinished because the Scythe doesn't need words to drive his point home.

“The lighthouse keeps her close,” he says, his hand sliding to my hip. “Anything she plans, every movement. She lives because she's mine.” His grip turns bruising. “You're protected because you're mine.”

His thumb retraces where the tattoo begins, transforming Cassie's mark of ownership into his own claim. Where her touch brought pain, his brands pleasure into my skin.

This man carved his way through empires to find his daughter. Now he's carved a place in my soul, too.

I raise my eyes to his.

He tilts his head slightly as he uses his innate talent to decipher the emotions swirling inside me. His stare narrows.

“If you think I’m not yours in return, Wraithling, then I haven’t done nearly enough to prove that to you.”

22

LAYLA

It astounds me that Kaden doesn’t think he’s proven his obsession over me.

“You turned my cottage into a fortress so you could watch me at all hours,” I argue. “You willingly imprisoned yourself so you could stay with me. You’ve killed men for me?—”

“Not nearly enough.”

“I know you’re mine,” I say at the same time.

“Do you?”

He grabs one of my wrists, and I wince at the rub of his grip against the barely healed scrapes. But the slice of pain is quickly forgotten when he pushes my palm against the length of his dick through his pants.

“This heat, this pulse that’s throbbing so hard it’s painful, this cock, is all fucking yours.”

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