Page 6 of Claiming Pretty

It’s just the adrenaline. Leftover panic from almost dying at the farmhouse. The memory of fear, the rush of relief, all tangled together in a way my mind couldn’t separate.

I’d read about trauma bonds somewhere, how near-death experiences could flood your body with endorphins, tricking your brain into craving comfort, connection. Lust.

That had to be it—just my shattered psyche playing cruel tricks on me.

And then there was Stockholm Syndrome. I’d read about that too. How captives could confuse dependence and fear for something else, something softer, something that felt like care. Like love.

That’s all this was. A trick of biology. A cocktail of chemicals in my traumatized brain, twisting reality until I couldn’t tell the difference between gratitude and longing. Between survival and desire.

It wasn’t real.

But when the paralytic took hold of me and Ty pulled me into his arms, holding me close, my body betrayed me, my skin burning where his hands pressed against me.

He laid me out gently on the hard surface of the workbench, the chill seeping through my clothes as the drug took over, locking me in place.

The smell of the lab filled my senses, sharp and chemical, mingling with that all-too-familiar musk of the drug.

It was suffocating.

But then a breeze swept in through the door Ty had left open, soft and unexpected, carrying with it the earthy scent of the greenhouse beyond.

And then I felt him—Ty’s lips trailing along my neck, slow and deliberate, down my body. Each kiss left damp patches on my skin that cooled in the breeze, sending shivers racing down my spine.

His touch was gentle as he pulled off my dress, hisfingers gliding over my skin with a tenderness that felt so at odds with the storm of guilt raging inside me.

I hated myself for how much I craved his touch.

This is the last time. The final session. The final excuse.

After tonight, there’d be no more reason for Ty to be this close, to touch me like this. No more twisted therapy to blur the lines I kept trying to draw between us.

After this, I’d go back to Ciaran. Back to the one I loved.

But the thought felt hollow, an ache settling in my chest at the realization.

I shouldn’t feel this way—not about Ty, not when every touch sent warmth rushing through me, a warmth I had no right to feel.

I shouldn’t be sad that this was the last time.

I shouldn’t want him to keep touching me, shouldn’t want his nearness to last a little longer.

What’s wrong with me?

Ciaran would hate me if he knew. It would break him to see what I felt—to see me like this, letting Ty so close, feelingthisfor his brother. He’d look at me with those intense eyes, full of betrayal, full of heartbreak, and I wouldn’t even be able to blame him.

I’m betraying him. I’m betraying him right now.

My throat tightened as Ty’s tongue brushed over my pussy, his growl vibrating through me.

“Fuuuuuck, your scent… your smell… everything about you intoxicates me.”

My body begged for more, even as my mind screamed to pull away.

I wanted to hate him for making me feel like this. For making me weak.

But the truth was, I hated myself more. Hated myself for the excuses I kept trying to make—that this was just the therapy, just the leftover tension from the paralytic, just my body reacting to his touch, to his tongue, nothing more.

But that wasn’t true, and I knew it.

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