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“Nine.”

His tone is dry. No signs of remorse.

“I tried to find them.”

“I know.”

“What do they look like?”

“They are small. Most of them are the size of a pinhole. You will never find them.”

I sink into my seat. Accepting defeat— for now.

* * *

We arrive at my house, and a chill rushes through my veins. The thought of Dante forcefully taking me this morning has my stomach in knots. Why is he bringing me back?He used you again. He wanted to humiliate you.

I walk up the stairs to the door and he follows me closely. His warmth invades my space, thickening the air around me. I take a deep breath as I enter the house.

No one is home, but I still feel disgusted with myself as if I’m doing the walk of shame.

I walk down the hall and into my bedroom. If you didn’t know any better, it would look like I just went out for the day. It doesn’t look like a struggle happened here.

I turn around to face Dante, feeling nauseous at the thought of him with Lacey.

“Why did you bring me back home?”

He looks down at me with his dark expression.

“You wanted to go home. Remember?”

He crosses his arms in front of his chest as I slowly nod my head.

“W-what will you do?”

He cocks his head to the side and studies my features. As if he doesn’t want to forget what they look like.

“I have something to take care of tomorrow.”

Myheart sinks to my stomach. He is meeting up with her. He probably burned a duplicate contract. He is going to marry her, and I will be left to pick up the pieces of my shattered soul.

I nod, looking down at the floor.

He grabs the hem of his shirt that covers me, lifting it to expose my healing wound to himself. He trails his fingers over the tender skin. I wince at the pain.

“Don’t forget who you belong to, princess.”

He drops the material, and he turns to walk out. I want to scream at him. I want to ask him where the fuck he is going, but I don’t. My mind doesn’t know what to say. All I can do is watch him leave. Watch him leave me broken, used, and stained in fucking sin.

* * *

The steam fills the bathroom as I stand naked before my mirror. The song, “Whoring Streets” by Scars on Broadway filtering throughout the space. Tears roll down my cheeks. I look at the dried mess covering my body. Blood stains my stomach. Evidence of my pleasure dried on my legs. Who am I?

I trace my finger over the markings, and the sting is less, but still there. The lines are smooth and crisp, as if he were a trained artist.It’s not art. It’s assault. He assaulted you.

It’s not assault. You like it. It looks beautiful on you. He told you. He told you you’re fucking perfect.

I open the shower and step into the steaming hot water. I need to wash my shame down the drain. The water hits my back, and I relax into the water, embracing the burn.