Gabriella
Sunlight stabbed through the curtains like it was personally offended I was still breathing.
I woke up curled on the very edge of the mattress, knees pulled to my chest, sheets twisted around my legs like I'd tried to strangle them in my sleep. My body hurt in places I didn't know could hurt. Not just the obvious bruises—thighs, hips, wrists where his fingers had dug in like he was marking territory—but deeper. A dull, pulsing ache between my legs that made every shift feel like tearing paper.
The room smelled like him. Cedar, smoke, sex, and something metallic I couldn't place. Blood maybe. Mine. His. Didn't matter.
He was already awake. I could feel it before I opened my eyes—the air had changed, become heavier, watchful. When I finally cracked my lids, he was sitting up against the headboard, bare-chested, one arm draped casually over his bent knee. Scrolling through his phone like last night was just another Tuesday.
Black ink crawled over his shoulder and down his arm—wolves, claws, Latin I couldn't read. Scars too. Thin ones. Thick ones. Stories he'd never tell me.
He didn't look up right away.
"Morning, wife."
The word landed like a slap.
I pulled the sheet higher, covering everything I could. My voice came out cracked. "Don't call me that."
He finally glanced over. Eyes cool. Amused. "What should I call you then? Mate? Little wolf? Property?"
I flinched. Hated that he saw it.
He set the phone on the nightstand. Stretched. Muscles rolled under skin like water over stone. No shame. No modesty. Just ownership of every inch of space he occupied—including me.
"You're bleeding on my sheets," he said conversationally.
Heat rushed to my face. I looked down. A small red smear on the white linen. Proof. Evidence. Humiliation.
I tried to cover it with my hand. Stupid. Pointless.
Aiden caught my wrist before I could hide anything. Not rough this time. Just firm. Inevitable.
"Leave it," he said. "I like seeing it."
I yanked my arm back. He let me. Generous of him.
"Why?" The word came out smaller than I wanted.
He tilted his head. "Because it means I was your first. And last. And every time in between."
My stomach turned over.
I swung my legs off the bed—too fast. Pain lanced up my spine. I gasped, froze.
He was there in an instant. One arm around my waist, pulling me back against his chest before I could fall. Strong. Warm. Wrong.
"Easy," he murmured against my hair. Like he cared. "You'll be sore for a few days."
"Don't touch me."
He didn't let go. Just held me there, back to his front, his heartbeat steady against my spine while mine tried to hammer through my ribs.
"You said that last night too," he reminded me softly. "Didn't stop me."
Tears burned behind my eyes. I blinked them back. I wouldn't give him that. Not again.
"Let me go."
He considered it. Then—slowly—his arm loosened. Not all the way. Just enough that I could breathe.
I scrambled off the bed, dragging the sheet with me like armor. Wrapped it around myself. Backed toward the bathroom door.
He watched every step. Lazy. Satisfied. A predator who'd already eaten.
"There's clothes in the closet," he said. "Your size. Your style. I had them brought in last week."
Of course he had. Of course he'd planned this down to the last detail.
I didn't answer. Just slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
The mirror showed a stranger.
Lip swollen. Bruise blooming on my collarbone in the shape of his mouth. Finger marks on my upper arms like purple bracelets. Hair tangled. Eyes red-rimmed but dry. No tears left right now. Just… empty.
I turned on the shower. Hot as it would go. Stepped under the spray and let it scald me.
The water hit every sore place and I welcomed it. Better than feeling nothing.
I stayed there until my fingers pruned and the steam made the room feel like another world.
When I finally shut the water off, I heard him moving in the bedroom. Drawers. Footsteps. Low voice on the phone—too quiet to make out words.
I wrapped myself in one of the huge black towels. Opened the door a crack.
He was dressed now. Dark jeans. Black Henley that hugged every line of muscle. Boots. Ready to leave.
He looked over when he heard the door.
"Breakfast is downstairs in twenty," he said. "Eat. You'll need the energy."
"For what?"
His smile was slow. Cruel. Beautiful.
"For round two."
My knees almost buckled.
He crossed the room in three strides, stopped just outside the bathroom doorway. Reached past me and plucked a small silver key from the hook by the mirror. Held it up between two fingers.
"Bathroom door stays unlocked from now on," he said. "Every door in this house stays unlocked. You don't get privacy. You don't get secrets. You get me."
He dropped the key into my palm. Closed my fingers around it.
"See you downstairs, Gabriella."
He walked out.
Left me standing there dripping, clutching a useless key, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway.
I looked at the key in my hand.
Then at the lock on the bathroom door.
I could lock it again. I could defy him right now. Small. Stupid. Pointless.
But I didn't.
I set the key back on the hook.
Because some part of me—some broken, terrified, furious part—already knew:
The real locks weren't on doors.
They were already inside me.
And he'd started turning the key last night.