Page 46 of Of Lies and Shadows

But it’s too late. The damage is done. I’m inside her, deep, buried in something I had no right to take.

The possessive part of me is howling—mine, mine, mine—but the man? The man is fucking panicking.

Because she’s not here, not really. She’s too silent, too still… She’s completely dissociating.

And I keep going because I’m weak. Because I’m angry. Because she feels like heaven wrapped in sin.

I spill inside her with a growl that I try, and fail, to swallow.

My forehead drops against her shoulder. My lips brush her neck in a touch so soft it disgusts me.

"I—" I start, not even sure what the fuck I’m trying to say.

"You came," she whispers. Her voice is flat. Hollow. Empty in a way that guts me. "You’re done with the whore now, right?"

The words slice through me like a blade, sharp and clean.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because the truth is… I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore.

Shenudges me off her with a sharp, jerky shove of her shoulder.

Not a scream. Not a slap. Just… a push. A silent dismissal.

Like I’m not even worth her anger.

I roll away, the loss of her body around me sudden and sharp. I sit on the edge of the bed, dragging a hand down my face, breathing like I just fought a goddamn war and lost.

She rises slowly, carefully, like every movement aches.

She grabs her dress and pulls it down without looking at me, and without a word, she crosses the room, her steps mechanical.

She disappears into the bathroom, and the click of the door closing is louder than any gunshot I’ve ever heard.

I stare at the door. At the empty bed. At the crimson stain blooming on the bedspread like a wound.

Mine.The word pounds inside my skull.Mine.

And yet, I feel like I just broke something I can never fix. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, my fists clenched so tight my knuckles crack.

This wasn’t supposed to matter.She wasn’t supposed to matter.

She’s a traitor. A liar. A spy.

She deserved to be punished, so why do I feel like the fucking villain? Why does her silence carve me open more brutally than any scream would have?

I think of her father, of Don Salvatore.

Of the way she looked when I held that gun to her head. Not defiant. Not afraid. Resigned. Like she expected it. Like she’d been waiting for it her whole life.

What kind of monster sends his own daughter into an enemy’s house to die slowly?

What kind of father?—

I shove the thought away.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

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