Morning light cut across my bed like an accusation.
I woke with the sheets twisted around my bare legs and the thick, sticky evidence of Liam still drying between my thighs. Every shift made me feel it—the stretch, the ache, the way he’d left me full and marked. My door was still unlocked. The house was already stirring downstairs: the low murmur of my mother’s voice, the clink of coffee cups, the distant sound of my stepfather’s laugh.
I dragged myself into the shower and stood under the scalding water until my skin turned pink, trying to scrub the scent of him off me. It didn’t work. When I stepped out and caught my reflection, there were faint bruises on my hips in the shape of his fingers and a red mark low on my neck where he’d bitten me. I tugged on a high-necked top and soft short
