When I thought it was over, when I had almost faded into unconsciousness from blood loss and fear, someone burst into the room.
Marcus.
Fury fueled his fists as he took each man down with a brutality I had never seen before. He looked like a fallen angel—raging and merciless, blood staining his knuckles, fire in his eyes. He found me, cut the ropes, and held me as I collapsed into him, shaking and sobbing. His arms were warm, strong. Comforting.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
And I had believed it. Every word. I believed in him.
I loved him.
But now I saw the truth for what it was.
He hadn’t saved me. He had orchestrated everything. He had watched my pain. Planned it. And afterward, he swooped in like a hero just to gain my trust… just to hurt me even more.
I trembled as the memory ripped through me. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the scene before me, but I held them back.
I wanted to shout. Ask him how he could kiss me, hold me like I was precious, whisper promises into my ear—all while knowing he was the reason behind my scars. I wanted to make him feel just a fraction of the agony I carried every day.
But I stayed composed. Silent.