Page 115 of Auctioned

Wearing my mark on her back.

My initials on her skin.

She’s never getting away from me.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

The word plays on repeat in my head as I get up and carry her to our bedroom.

I should take her to a room where I have a first-aid kit within reach. Like the kitchen or the guest bathroom on the main floor. The two other the bathrooms on the second one.

But branding her means something to me. It symbolizes our eternal bond. A promise. A vow that only happens once.

Unlike the initiation, this is one ritual I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.

Our bedroom it is.

Ophelia’s weight is light and welcomed in my arms on the way up. I regret losing that connection when I place her face down on the bed. Her hair, I have to touch it. Thread my fingers through it. So I do, before I gently tuck it away from her face and new scar.

God, her dried tears are beautiful.

Her mangled skin even more so. Unable to stay away, I press my lips to her new scar, running my tongue along it. Tasting her. Comforting her while she’s blacked out.

Leaving her here isn’t right. We both could use a bath, so that’s where we go. Once the tub is full and I make sure the water isn’t too hot, I settle both of us in here like I did the last time she was passed out.

I squirt liquid soap on my hand and run it over her body, her breasts. Between her thighs. Her dark hair is softer by the time I’m done shampooing and conditioning it. I take great care not to touch her new wound as I clean myself up after her.

Back on the bed. I’m not at her side for less than a minute before I return with the first-aid kit. I clean her with the antibiotic ointment and bandage her.

I stay in place, absorbing her beauty. This moment.

Inhaling her scent, I run my fingertips along the curve of her back. Her skin prickles wherever I touch her. I allow myself to believe that, on a deeper level, she’s aware. That she’s comforted by it even though her eyes are closed.

“Good girl.” I kiss the small of her back, right above her crack.

The clothes come next. The softest cotton long-sleeve T-shirt and a pair of sleep pants from her closet are what I choose for her, both gray. Then I pull on a dark blue T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

I need to review some things, and there’s no way I’m leaving her here by herself.

She won’t wake up to a cold bed.

I’m sickened by the sweet thought.

I listen to it, scooping Ophelia in my arms and taking her to the den.

With me.

Rowan:The target’s secure. Texts, movements, behavior are the same—nothing new to report.

The message from the private investigator I flew out to Ibiza soothes me. I place the phone down, raising my gaze to Ophelia.

Peaceful, sleeping Ophelia.

My fingers tap on the desk in my den, mirroring the rhythm of the rain as it lands on the windows.

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