Page 72 of Filthy Little Fix

We stop in front of the door, which he unlocks with his fingerprint. He pushes the door open, gesturing with his chin for me to enter.

I do.

Whatever they broke in there, they cleaned up. I search for what. A missing object, a displaced painting, anything to suggest a violent tantrum—I find only the absence of a lamp on the table.

I hear him lock the door.Click.

Now, there's only this room. Only him.

I don't move. He analyzes me, inspects me. He takes a few steps, the sound of his shoes muffled by the carpet.

"You're a mess," he says.

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I don't turn to face him. "Your doing, mister."

He stops behind me.

"My responsibility to fix," he murmurs. His voice sends a shiver down my neck.

Fix me, then. Break me a little more and put me back together again, in any way you want to.

I want him to tear off my clothes and throw me against the bed. I want him to hurt me. To choke me.

"Take off your clothes," he orders. He circles me until he's standing in front of me, and the tension from the fight with Svetlana is obvious in the hardness of his jaw.

So that's how it's gonna be. Obedience is easy.

I start. The first button, tugging it out of its loop. The second. The fabric of the dress shirt opens, with the marks he left on me still visible—spread across my neck, collarbone, chest. I want him to see. I want him to see what he did to me.

"Your sister seemed furious," I say as I undo the third button. The way Dante stares at my fingers makes me want to do this slower.

"Svetlana's anger is the least of your worries."

I hum. "You know I've seen worse."

The shirt is completely open now. It exhibits his work. The dark marks on my skin are his art.

He takes another step, closing the distance. His hand comes up, but he doesn't touch me. His thumb hovers over the darkest bruise on my collarbone. Something in him softens. I melt. "I know."

God. He has to stop talking like that.

The possessiveness I'm used to is still there, but thatsomething else—that quiet acknowledgment—undoes me. I want more of it. I want to pry open his control and see what else is hiding in there.

He must have seen the shift in my eyes, because he takes a half-step back, re-erecting his walls. "Go take a shower," he orders, pointing his chin towards the bathroom. "I want you clean."

And I want you.

"Yes, mister."

I don't wait for another command. I walk toward the bathroom, leaving my discarded shirt on the floor. I push the bathroom door open but don't close it all the way—a careless oversight. An open invitation.

I undress inside the bathroom. I see his shadow outside, I hear the firmness of his footsteps. A rustle of leather—the armchair in the corner of the room.

I turn the shower knob. The steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, blurring the lines of the perfect bathroom.

He's out there. Listening.

I step under the spray. The hot water is a futile attempt to relax—my entire body hums with a single name. Dante.