Page 22 of Marked By His Touch

But a darker feeling is also stirring within me. It’s like that time in elementary school when Alicia Higgins got a puppy, and all the girls wanted to be her friend. I remember the gnawing feeling inside me, a feeling I'm too proud to admit:jealousy.

This week, I’ve noticed how the women in the house practically swoon at the mention of his name, their eyes following him when he enters the room, a silent competition for his attention. It feels like they’re all vying for him, and I’m just another piece of furniture, another pretty face in a sea of similar faces.

“Where is yourAlexa?” one of the women asks, batting her eyelashes, bringing me back to reality. Her voice is breathy. “You still—withhim?”

He’s not even in the house, and she’s already practicing a hundred ways to hit on him. Ugly jealousy rears its head, a venomous snake slithering through my gut. I know I shouldn’t feel like this. But we haven’t spoken for over a week now. It’s not like us.

“He’s with me,” I say, my voice calm but with a sharp edge.

The anger inside me flares, a building wildfire threatening to erupt.

“Then why you sleep with us,slatka?” another one says, a sly smirk on her lips.

I’m about to explode; the anger will spill over in a moment like an erupting volcano.

“B-because—”

Instead of answering I storm out of the house, the air outside is fresh and chilly. I need to breathe, to move. I need to feel something, anything.

I find Zara at the back of the house, practicing her punches against a heavy bag. Her movements are fluid and controlled,almost hypnotic. She catches my eye, and her lips curl into a smile. She’s a beautiful woman with a wild mane of dark hair and eyes that hold a mischievous glint. She’s a woman who knows her power, and she doesn’t hesitate to use it.

“I need a session, now!” I demand, my voice a breathless rush.

“That is good attitude,” Zara says, her smile widening. “Keep that up,da.”

Before I can even register what’s happening, she throws a punch, her fist connecting with my stomach.

The air leaves my lungs with a gasp, and I double over, my breath catching in my throat. My teeth clench, my jaw tight, and pain explodes through my core. I try to draw in a breath, but it feels like someone is squeezing my insides. I see stars, my vision blurring at the edges, but I don’t fall.

I get up, my legs wobbly, my stomach screaming in protest. Zara’s voice cuts through the haze. “You’re nothing—you ragdoll,” she says emotionlessly.

I meet her gaze, my anger simmering. “I’m not,” I say, my voice bitter, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.

Zara shrugs, her eyes flickering. “Or—punch bag. For men to have fun with.”

It’s the last straw. Her words, dripping with disdain and mockery, ignite a fury I never knew I possessed.

“You! You don’t talk to me like that,” I say and lunge forward, my feet barely touching the ground, fueled by a burning need to prove her wrong. But Zara is too quick. She side-steps, her movement is graceful, and she sweeps my legs out from under me. I fall heavily, my jaw connecting with the cold ground. A wave of nausea washes over me, my vision dimming, the world a spinning blur of pain and confusion.

The world shifts back into focus, and I’m still on the ground. My jaw aches, and the taste of blood is metallic on my tongue.My body throbs with a dull ache, my clothes damp with sweat and tears. I’m bruised but not broken.

“You need to fight with your mind,slatka,” Zara says, her eyes flashing with amusement and cold calculation. “Not your emotions.” She throws back her head and laughs; it sounds like a wolf’s howl.

I’m still on the ground when I see Alexander stepping out of a sleek black car that just drove in. He’s impeccably groomed, his hair perfectly in place, his face clean-shaven, dressed in a sharp new suit.He’s back, he’s safe, he’s okay.

I smile, the tension easing from my shoulders for a moment. I almost forget that we’re still fighting. He hurries toward me, his eyes filled with concern, but Zara intercepts him before he can reach me. She wraps her arm around his neck, her grip tight and possessive, a viper coiling around its prey.

“Let Zara know when you tire of that—little thing,” she purrs, her voice a low growl. “When you’re ready for—real woman.” Her smile is predatory.

Alexander tries to ignore her, but she plants her lips on his, a bold move that catches him off guard.

He pushes her away, his voice a low warning. “Don’t do that.” He wipes his lips clean.

“Easy—big man,” she says, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “There’s plenty more where that came from.” She pulls down her shirt, a blatant display of her curves, her eyes daring him to take notice.

My blood boils. There’s a fire igniting in my gut, a fierce heat that’s spreading.

I’m not just alittle thing. I’m not a ragdoll. I’m not a punching bag.

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