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“Princess,” he murmurs, dragging the word out like a kiss, “you gave them to us.”

Matteo presses his mouth to my shoulder, voice still ragged.

“And we’re going to savoreverysecond.”

Chapter 45

Seanna

Myskinstillstings.My thighs ache. My throat’s raw from growling curses and choking on cock, and there are streaks of Bodhi’s release drying on my breasts.

So, obviously, I head for the bathroom.

The hallway is too quiet as I walk, bare feet whispering against hardwood. My calves tremble slightly, and the skin of my inner thighs is tacky with sweat and dried arousal. I smell like sex and violence.

I’m still naked. And I don’t care.

Let them look.

Let them fucking watch.

I earned this walk. Every bruise on my hips, every scratch on my ribs, every ache between my thighs was paid for with sweat and the kind of surrender that always ends in teeth and claw marks. I’m covered in their come, their sweat, and I don’t cover a damn thing as I walk.

Because I’m not ashamed of what they did to me.

I’m just not sure what it means that Iwantedit.

The bathroom door creaks as I push it open. It’s the one in my new bedroom—the room too perfectly tailored to not be unnerving. Steam still lingers faintly from my earlier self-scorching rinse, curling around the black marble like ghosted breath. The mirror’s fogged at the edges, distorting the woman inside it until she barely looks like me at all. A blur of skin and shadows and things I’m not ready to face.

I step up to the shower, fingers reaching for the faucet.

Then I hear it. Boots hit the floor behind me.

Then the soft sound of fabric peeling from skin.

I don’t turn around. I don’t have to.

“I said I was taking a shower,” I say over my shoulder, voice dry.

“I know,” Matteo answers simply. “I’m not letting you do it alone.”

Not a question. Not a demand.

Just Matteo being... Matteo.

I don’t argue. Not this time.

I step into the shower as the water kicks on, cranking the temperature up until it scalds. It feels good. Real. A bite I can control. It cuts through the haze still clinging to my limbs and brings me back to my body. Behind me, Matteo steps in, bare now except for the scars and ink carved into his skin.

He doesn’t reach for me right away.

He grabs a washcloth instead.

Wets it. Lathers it.

Then kneels.

He starts at my ankles working his way up, the cloth warm and sudsy against sore skin. His hands are careful. Strong. Reverent in a way that makes my skin itch—not because I want him to stop, but because I don’t know what the hell to do with this.