Chapter 15: The Morning After
The first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a muted, golden hue across the sprawling bedroom. Kian stirred beneath the silk sheets, his body heavy, sore, and... claimed.
As his consciousness slowly returned, so did the memories. Each moment from the night before played vividly in his mind—her voice, her scent, her hands, the way their bodies had come dangerously close to the edge, only to stop just short of the point of no return. They hadn't gone all the way. They had crossed boundaries—yes—but not that one.
But the intensity of everything else… it left his skin burning.
His hand brushed over his neck—and he hissed. The skin was inflamed, tender. He sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down to his lap. Then he saw them.
The mirror on the far wall showed everything: his neck was littered with red and purple marks—deep, angry bruises where her teeth had sunk into his skin. Not just playful nips, but bite marks—a string of them. Some small and shallow, others deeper, raw, passionate. Like she had wanted to carve herself into him.
His collarbone had faint crescent-shaped indentations from her nails, and long scratches dragged down his chest. It wasn't just one or two marks—it was a canvas of possession. His body had become a map of her touches.
And strangely… he didn't mind it. Not one bit.
His thoughts swirled as he ran a hand through his tousled blond-black-white hair, trying to settle the ache—not just physical, but emotional. She had almost taken everything. And he had almost let her. But somewhere in that whirlwind of heat and hunger, she had stopped. She had pulled away first.
And now, morning had come.
A soft knock echoed from the double doors before they opened without waiting for permission.
She stepped in like she owned the world—which, to be fair, she almost did.
Seraphine.
She was dressed in an elegant robe that brushed the tops of her thighs, her long hair loose around her shoulders. The sunlight adored her, turning her into something unreal. Her eyes met his, calm and composed—as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't marked him like prey in the night.
In her hands, she held a shirt. A high-neck, jet-black shirt made from luxurious fabric.
Kian stared at it before meeting her gaze, his voice rasping. "Why... do you have a man's shirt?"
A flicker crossed her face, brief and unreadable. Then she walked toward him and extended the shirt. "Don't flatter yourself," she said coolly. "I made it. For no one in particular."
He took the shirt slowly, feeling the material. Soft. Sleek. Perfect.
"To hide the marks?" he asked quietly.
Her lips twitched into something resembling a smirk. "Obviously. Unless you'd rather walk out there looking like someone's favorite chew toy."
He exhaled through his nose, a dry laugh escaping. "So you do admit you went overboard."
She raised a brow. "If I had gone overboard, you wouldn't be walking this morning."
He stilled.
She smiled faintly and turned. "Come."
With no other choice, and the shirt still in hand, Kian followed her down a hallway. They moved through the opulent suite until she stopped at a wide door and pushed it open.
Inside was a room he hadn't expected: walls lined with shelves of raw fabrics—cashmere, leather, velvet, silk. Sketches pinned to corkboards. Rolls of material stacked neatly. Industrial sewing machines, a cutting table, mannequins.
It was a design studio.
"I do this when I'm bored," Seraphine said simply, walking toward one of the tables. "Clothing design. Textile engineering. Pattern architecture. Whatever you want to call it."
He looked around, genuinely taken aback. "You made all this?"
"Of course," she replied, sorting through a tray of measuring tape and scissors. "I learned tailoring when I was nine. Bored of it by eleven. But it's useful sometimes. Like now."
She glanced over her shoulder at him, then fully turned to face him. "The world thinks I rely on my power, my money, or my parents' influence. But the truth is... I never needed any of it. Not even once."
Kian stood there silently, watching her. She wasn't boasting. She didn't need to. Her confidence was something deeper—so deeply rooted in who she was that it didn't even require words.
"It's just one of my hobbies," she added casually. "One of the thousand things I mastered while everyone else was still figuring out how to tie their shoes."
Kian gave a quiet, lopsided smile. "And here I thought you only bit people for fun."
That earned him a rare reaction—her lips parted, and she let out the faintest, softest laugh. Then, without another word, she walked over to him, her steps slow, deliberate.
Her hand reached up, gently tugging the collar of the shirt he'd slipped on.
"Good," she said, brushing her fingers against the fabric. "It hides my work."
He caught her wrist before she could pull away.
"You stopped," he murmured. "Last night. You stopped us."
Her eyes lifted to his. Calm. Steady.
"I did," she confirmed. "Because if we'd crossed that line, it wouldn't have been because of the drug in your system... or because I lost control. It would've been ours. Real. Clean. No regrets. No shadows."
He didn't respond. He just looked at her. And for the first time, he understood—she wasn't just powerful. She was dangerous, yes—but also deliberate, in control. And in some strange way, she'd protected him.
She leaned in then, slowly, her breath brushing his jawline. He didn't move.
Seraphine's lips pressed against the most prominent mark on his neck—a slow, possessive kiss that sent electricity down his spine.
When she pulled back, her voice was low. "This one," she whispered, "is permanent."
And with that, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there, still marked, still reeling… and completely hers.