Page 122 of Crave
The sheets were cold, the space beside me empty, but the scent of him still clung to the pillows, to the air, to me.
For a moment I lay there, disoriented, the silence pressing in from all sides.
Something felt wrong.
Off.
I could still feel him, the weight of his hands on my hips, the heat of his breath against my throat, the bruises he’d left in his wake.
But he was gone.
And I felt it.
A slow, curling unease slithered beneath my skin.
I sat up, pressing a hand against my chest, my pulse steady, but too sharp, too aware.
I didn’t know where he was.
How long ago did he leave?
The emptiness should’ve been a relief. But it wasn’t. Because without him—without the weight of them, the possessive press of their bodies around me—I felt…hollow.
Like something inside me had been carved out and left to ache.
I shifted, wincing at the soreness between my thighs, at the deep, bone-deep throb still pulsing through my body.
It was a good ache.
A delicious, bruising, possessive ache.
And that alone should’ve terrified me.
Something inside me had changed. I could feel it in my bones, in my blood. I wasn’t the same woman who had fought them, who had tried to hold onto some version of herself they hadn’t corrupted, claimed, used.
No.
Something inside me had snapped.
Cracked wide open.
And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to put myself back together again.
I dragged in a breath, slow, unsteady.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Like the silence itself was watching me.
Waiting.
Pressing.
I ran a trembling hand through my hair, exhaling softly and licked my dry lips, trying to work the moisture into the back of my throat.
I needed water.
