Page 82 of Until You Break

I thought I’d feel regret. Shame. Guilt. Instead, all I feel is free.

Last night wasn’t a mistake—it was a reckoning. The parts of me I spent years trying to bury are finally out in the open, raw and undeniable.

And Dominic… he didn’t just accept them. He demanded them. Claimed them.

I glance at his hand, wrapped tightly around me like I’m his lifeline. Even in sleep, he’s possessive. I shift slightly, testing the limits of his hold, and his grip tightens. His chest presses against my back, solid and warm, his breath brushing against the back of my neck.

It’s like he can sense my every thought, every movement, and it sends a shiver down my spine. I need to get up, to take a moment to myself before he wakes and pulls me back under his spell.

Carefully, I try to slide out from under his arm, but the moment I move, his hand clamps down on my waist like a vise.

“Where the fuck are you going?” His voice is rough with sleep, but the edge in it makes my pulse skip.

I freeze.Caught.“Relax, fucking hell,” I murmur, trying to sound casual. “I just need to pee.”

For a second, he doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if he’ll let me go. Then, with a low grunt, he releases me, his arm falling away.

“Fine. But don’t think you’re sneaking off anywhere, Little Sinner. You’re not going far without me.”

I slide out of bed, every muscle in my body protesting the movement. The moment my feet hit the floor and I take a step, I gasp. A sharp pain shoots up my pussy, radiates through my thighs and between my legs.

My hand shoots out to the wall for balance, and behind me, Dominic lets out a deep chuckle.

“That’s my girl,” he says, smug as fuck. “You’re welcome, baby.”

Heat flushes my face as I force myself to straighten, my jaw tightening against the ache. Every step sends a sharp, pulsing reminder of just how thoroughly Dominic fucked me last night. I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.

“Shut up,” I mutter, my voice clipped as I shuffle toward the bathroom.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” he calls after me, his voice teasing and dripping with that infuriating confidence he wears so well. “You’d be complaining if you didn’t feel it.”

I glare over my shoulder at him, but he just smirks, his head sinking back into the pillow like he’s already won. Bastard.

“You’re an asshole,” I shoot back, my hand gripping the door frame as I steady myself.

“And you love it,” he says smoothly, his voice following me like a shadow.

I slam the bathroom door shut, leaning against it for a second to catch my breath. My body aches in ways I didn’t even think were possible, and I can still feel the faint impression of his hands on my skin—like a brand I can’t scrub off.

After taking care of business, I take a few steps toward the sink, hissing at the pull of sore muscles, and catch my reflection in the mirror.

Hair tangled, lips swollen, faint bruises dotting my skin like marks of ownership. My thighs quiver as I shift my weight, and I wince, biting back a groan. He did this. He did all of this.

A reminder, like everything else, of exactly who I belong to. I should feel humiliated—or at least conflicted—but instead, a small smile tugs at my lips. I look like myself for the first time in years.

By the time I make it back to bed, he’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching me with a lazy smirk. His bare chest is on full display, tattoos sprawling across his skin and those nipple piercings I need to pull with my teeth.

His eyes track every step I take, dark and predatory, and the moment I get close enough, he grabs my wrist and yanks me back into bed.

“You’re not sneaking off anywhere,” he growls, pulling me flush against him. His arm hooks around my waist, locking me in place like I’m his fucking prisoner. “Not after last night.”

I don’t fight him. Instead, I settle against his chest, letting the heat of him seep into my skin. “What happens now?” I asksoftly, staring at the faint scars on his shoulder, tracing them absentmindedly with my finger.

He’s quiet for a moment, his hand sliding up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair.

“Now?” he says finally, his voice low and rough. “Now, you stop fucking running from me.”

I pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I’m not running.”

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