Page 108 of Crushed Vow
He followed moments later, his release fierce, his body shuddering against mine as we both panted, spent and intertwined.
He withdrew slowly, and I glanced down, seeing the blood on him, on the couch, on me. I started to look away, embarrassed, but he caught my chin, his eyes soft but firm. “Don’t,” he said. “This was the best sex of my life.”
He knelt beside me, his lips brushing my forehead, my cheek, my lips, each kiss a tender seal on the moment we’d shared. “I’ll leave you to freshen up,” he said, his voice gentle now, and he walked toward the bathroom, his footsteps steady.
I sat up, my body still humming, and glanced at the blood-stained couch—the evidence of our passion.
How was I going to clean this? But first, I needed to clean myself.
I stood, my legs shaky, and headed for the bathroom, carrying the weight of his touch and his words.
As I walked toward the bathroom, completely naked, something had shifted inside me.
For the first time since the surgery, since the humiliation, since my entire body became a battlefield of scars and shame—I didn’t flinch under my own gaze. I wasn’t hiding behind clothes. I wasn’t shrinking from judgment.
I felt...secure. Not beautiful, not whole—but something close to acceptance. For once, I had been seen without mockery. Touched without disgust. Worshipped without pity.
And that feeling... it lingered like a phantom embrace.
I cleaned myself up in the bathroom, showered thoroughly, replaced the pad, and slipped into a simple housewear: an oversized shirt and soft cotton shorts. My body still ached in unfamiliar places, but not in ways I regretted.
When I stepped into the living room, I found Cassian arched over the couch, washing it with soap and water.
The blood.
Our blood. Mine.
“I planned to do that,” I murmured, guilt prickling my chest.
He didn’t look up. “Don’t worry about it.”
By the time I reached him, he was already done. He set the bucket and soap aside, then turned and pulled me into his arms without hesitation. His hands were wet, and he didn’t seem to care.
“Your drawing is so beautiful,” he whispered against my temple.
I blinked, surprised. “I haven’t even finished...”
He leaned back slightly, brushing a damp strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, but the part you’ve done—it’s already stunning.”
I lowered my gaze, heat blooming in my chest. “I’ve always dreamed of owning a gallery,” I said quietly. “A real one. With glass walls and soft lighting. Where people would walk around sipping champagne and buying my art... where I’d matter.”
“You do matter,” he said immediately. “And I’ll make that gallery happen. I’ll buy the most expensive space in this city if I have to. I’ll have a private curator. A launch night with every collector from New York to Milan. Champagne towers, velvet ropes. All of it for you.”
A pause. Then, softly, “But first, this war needs to end. I need to make sure Luca and your father are no longer a threat.”
“I understand,” I murmured.
“I’m meeting with the boss of the Volkov Bratva tomorrow evening,” he continued, releasing me gently. “Trying to broker peace. Maybe—just maybe—we can end this without more bloodshed.”
“You’re not scared they’ll hurt you?” I asked, watching the way tension coiled beneath his skin.
“No. That’s not how it works. They know what they stand to gain if they keep me alive.”
He guided me toward the couch and helped me sit, his hand lingering on my shoulder.
“But on Friday...” he smiled faintly, “my first biker match is happening. It’s a qualifier for the championships. I haven’t trained at all, but I think I can still pull through.”
“For someone half-blind?” I teased, raising a brow.
