Page 96 of Crushed Vow

We were no longer married. He owed me nothing. So why did I care?

Because no matter how many legal documents said otherwise, Cassian Moretti was still carved into the softest part of me.

I blinked against the light trickling in. I needed to get up. Shower. Maybe that would help. Maybe washing off the memory of yesterday would bring me back to life.

But I already knew it would hurt—physically and emotionally. Most of my wounds were bandaged and stitched. The doctor had warned me not to let water soak into them.

Still, I sat up, jaw clenched through the sharp flare of pain. Every movement was a betrayal. My body, once my weapon, now felt like something broken I was dragging behind me.

And then I saw it.

Blood.

A dark, damp stain on the white sheet where I had been lying.

But it wasn’t from my wounds.

I froze. Mortification punched me square in the gut.

No. No, please, God...

I turned my head slowly—and saw him. Cassian was no longer at his desk.

He was standing.

Facing me.

He’d seen.

My breath hitched. I backed away from the bed, horror rising like bile in my throat. My gown clung to the back of my thighs, and I knew—I knew—it was soaked too. Humiliation hit me like a tidal wave. First my breasts... now this?

Now I’m bleeding all over his sheets like I don’t even know my own body anymore.

Tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t remember feeling the usual cramps. No warning. No clue. My body was betraying me again. I wasn’t just broken—I was disgusting.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” I choked out, voice cracking. “I didn’t know—I just—”

He didn’t speak.

He walked toward me.

I flinched without thinking, trembling from the weight of shame. But his hands were soft, careful. He reached for the uninjured one, curled his fingers gently around mine, and pulled me slowly into his chest.

His voice was low. Unshakable.

“You think I care about stained sheets? You think I’d love you less because your body’s doing what it’s meant to do? No, Charlotte. I love you—all of you. Blood and scars. Rage and silence. I’ll clean it up. You just go take your shower.”

I wanted to resist. To fight him. But something in his voice cracked open a dam inside me.

I pressed my forehead into his chest and let myself sob—quiet, ashamed, uncontrollable tears. I didn’t deserve this softness. Not from him. Not from anyone.

But he held me.

He held me like I wasn’t filthy.

He held me like I was still human.

After a long while, I pulled back, wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, and walked toward the bathroom, trying to ignore the dampness between my legs and the echo of his heartbeat against my face.