Chapter 17: The Morning After
Morning crept in gently, painting the vast bedroom in golden warmth. The scent of skin, heat, and something faintly floral lingered in the air—evidence of what had happened between those dark silk sheets.
Kian stirred.
His lashes fluttered before his eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the unfamiliar room. Light pooled across the bed in soft halos, illuminating every mark on his bare chest.
And there were many.
Red blotches bloomed like scattered rose petals along his collarbones and chest—some tender and faint, others dark and raw. A deeper bite sat on the curve where his neck met his shoulder, sharp and unmistakably possessive. His ribs wore scratches. His hips had bruises from fingers digging into flesh. Every inch of him felt touched, tasted, taken.
He sat up slowly, muscles aching with pleasant soreness.
His black hair fell messily over his eyes, strands tousled in every direction. He swept it back with one hand, his movements fluid and graceful despite the stiffness. His face—sharp and cold like carved obsidian—was tinted faintly pink from the flush of memory. The strong line of his jaw, the high sculpted cheekbones, the delicate slope of his nose—he was too handsome for his own good, like a painting that had stepped out of its frame and into the morning light.
And he was completely, utterly naked.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath.
There was nothing—nothing—left of his clothes. His shirt was shredded. His pants torn open in too many places to count. Even his coat, a high-end designer piece, had been ripped at the seams like paper. Her hands. Her hunger. Her heat.
She had ruined everything he wore.
Kian pulled the sheets tighter around his waist and moved gingerly toward the bathroom. His legs still trembled slightly from the night before. They hadn't gone all the way—he remembered that clearly—but they had gone far. Too far for his body to forget.
The bathroom greeted him with cool marble and rising steam from the bath that had already begun to fill. He sank into it with a groan, letting the heat soothe the marks on his body, each one pulsing softly with memory. The water was warm, almost too warm, but perfect for relaxing his tense muscles.
Kian leaned back against the edge of the tub, the smooth stone beneath him supporting his weight. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, letting the heat sink into his bones. Every mark on his body felt alive with the memory of her touch, her bites, her kisses—the consuming way she'd made him hers.
And then—
The door creaked open.
Kian's eyes shot open, his body stiffening in the water, hands instinctively gripping the sides of the tub. His heart raced in his chest at the sight of her. Eva stood in the doorway, framed by the golden light filtering through the bathroom. The sight of her was intoxicating—barefoot, her body draped in a thin silk robe that barely clung to her curves. Her long, dark hair cascaded in waves down her back, the strands still tousled from the night. She was a vision—elegant, poised, every inch of her a perfect contradiction of softness and strength.
Her eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto him. And for a moment, Kian forgot how to breathe.
"W-What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice thick, almost nervous.
She tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Is there anything on your body I haven't already seen?"
Kian's face flushed a deeper shade of crimson, and he instinctively pulled the water around him, trying to hide his exposed skin.
"You tore everything I wore," he muttered, his gaze flickering to the shredded remains of his clothes on the floor. "You didn't leave me a single thread."
"You didn't complain last night," she said with a quiet chuckle, her tone smooth as silk.
He looked away, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "That's… different."
She stepped into the bathroom, her movements slow and deliberate. She placed a neatly folded bundle on the counter next to the sink and crossed her arms, her gaze never leaving him.
Kian eyed the clothes. They were neatly pressed, soft-looking, and clearly tailored for him. There was no mistaking the careful craftsmanship. His eyes widened slightly.
"Wait… why do you have men's clothes?" he asked, his voice edged with confusion.
Eva raised a brow, her lips curling into a teasing smirk. "I don't. I made them."
Kian blinked, staring at the clothes as though they might suddenly vanish into thin air. "You made them? Today?"
She nodded, her eyes sharp and unreadable. "Making clothes is one of my many hobbies. It was the first thing I did when I woke up. You didn't have anything to wear, and I didn't feel like letting you walk around naked."
He stared at her, still trying to wrap his mind around the situation. She made these clothes? Just like that? The precision of the stitching, the fine fabric—it looked like something tailored specifically for him.
"How did you even know my size?" he asked quietly.
She glanced at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I know."
Her voice was casual, almost teasing. But beneath it, there was a quiet certainty. She knew him. Knew what he needed, knew what he wore, knew exactly how to take care of him.
He swallowed thickly, the lump in his throat growing with every word she spoke. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Of her. But she had this power over him, this commanding presence that made everything feel right. The way she controlled every moment. Every inch of space. Every second.
She was untouchable.
And yet, she had touched him—everywhere.
His chest tightened.
Kian looked down at the clothes again, his fingers lightly brushing the fabric. "You're unbelievable."
Her smile widened, but there was no malice in it—just a quiet amusement. "You're mine."
Her words lingered in the air long after she had turned to leave, robe trailing behind her like an ethereal cloud. She had marked him—physically, emotionally, and now... her clothes—her creation, too. The man she made, the man she claimed.
Kian sank back into the water, his heart still racing as his thoughts spun. He had never met anyone like her.
And despite the wariness in him, the fear, he didn't think he ever wanted to meet anyone else.