Chapter 22 Washing His Scent Off
I woke up to the sound of waves. Gentle, rhythmic, almost mocking in their calmness. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was, the sheets were soft as clouds, the scent in the room unfamiliar, tinged with salt and musk and something distinctly him. My eyes blinked open slowly, vision blurring into focus. The ceiling above me was carved in marble, painted with soft gold lines that caught the fading afternoon light.
Afternoon.
I turned my head toward the bedside clock and froze. Five p.m.
Had I… really slept that long?
Memories trickled back, hazy and fevered, his voice, low and commanding, his breath against my ear, the way my body trembled and gave in despite my protests. My pulse jumped, traitorous. I shut my eyes, willing the rush of heat in my cheeks to fade.
It hadn’t been a dream.
I remembered saying I was tired, begging him to let me rest, even, when the night had bled into dawn and the sun had risen again. But he hadn’t stopped. Not really. He’d looked at me with that maddening hunger and whispered against my skin that he couldn’t get enough.
And now…
Now I felt like a truck had run through me. Every muscle in my body ached, my limbs heavy as stone. I pushed myself upright with a groan, the silk sheets sliding down my skin. My neck throbbed faintly, and I reached up, fingers brushing the tender marks there. Then I looked down.
My breath caught.
Hickeys, faint bruises trailing from my collarbone down to my ribs, my arms, even the curve of my breasts. Proof of what had happened. Proof that I hadn’t imagined the intensity between us.
“God…” I whispered, half in disbelief, half in shame.
The room itself was a mess of contradictions, luxury wrapped in chaos. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and sea salt. Scattered around the room were shopping bags, dozens of them, from boutiques and brands I’d only ever seen in glossy magazines. Chanel, Dior, Valentino. My throat tightened. He’d bought them for me. For what? Guilt? Possession? Some twisted attempt at care?
I swung my legs off the bed, the cold marble floor biting against my bare feet. My body protested every movement, each step a reminder of last night.
When I reached the bathroom, I stopped short.
It wasn’t a bathroom, it was a sanctuary. A place designed for gods, not people like me. Shades of emerald and ivory surrounded me, walls veined with gold. The tub itself gleamed, massive and sculpted, with golden claw feet and a waterfall spout that shimmered in the soft light. It was bigger than my old apartment back in the city.
I turned the water on, the sound filling the silence around me. Steam rose slowly, curling in the air. My reflection in the mirror looked… broken. My hair was a tangled mess, sticking to my damp forehead. My lips were swollen. My eyes, my eyes looked lost.
I stepped into the tub and sank into the hot water, hissing as it touched my sore skin. Every ache began to ease under the warmth, but inside, something far deeper twisted.
I should have felt relief. Or anger. Or disgust.
But instead, I felt confusion.
Because despite everything, despite how much I claimed to hate him, how much I swore I’d never let him touch me, part of me had wanted it. Needed it. Even now, when the fever of my heat had passed, I could still feel the phantom weight of his hands on me, the sound of his moans echoing through my head.
I hated myself for that.
My throat tightened as tears filled my eyes.
Fred.
The name tore through me like a blade.
I didn’t even know if he was alive. The last I’d seen of him, he’d been fighting those creatures, his eyes fierce and desperate. He stood in front of me to protect me.
“Fred,” I whispered again, the sound cracking. “I’m so sorry.”
The tears fell freely now, mixing with the bathwater. I curled my knees to my chest, resting my forehead against them. My sobs came in waves, soft at first, then harder, the kind of sobs that hollow you out from the inside.
Because the truth I didn’t want to face was this, even as I cried for Fred, even as I hated Darius for everything he’d done, part of me couldn’t forget the way he’d looked at me. The way he’d touched me.
When his touch had softened. When his breath had stilled near my ear, and I thought I saw something in his eyes. Something that made my heart skip even as I wanted to push him away.
I hated that memory.
I hated that my body had betrayed me, that it had craved him even after my mind screamed no.
That realization broke something inside me.
Because no matter how wrong everything was, no matter how furious I was at his arrogance and his control, my heart had felt something when he’d held me. Something wild and confusing and real.
And that made me hate myself more than I’d ever hated anyone.
I slid further into the tub until the water touched my chin, my tears now indistinguishable from the droplets running down my cheeks. The gold-trimmed walls gleamed mockingly in the dim light, a palace of beauty built around my prison.
I reached for the soap, a small bar shaped like a seashell, and began scrubbing my skin with trembling hands. Harder and harder, until my arms ached and my skin turned red. I needed to feel clean again, to erase everything that clung to me. The marks. The scent. The memory of him.
I scrubbed until it stung, until my breath came in ragged bursts, until I could no longer tell whether the redness on my skin was from the water’s heat or my desperation. I wanted to wash away every trace of him, his scent, his touch, the feel of his breath on my neck.
But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t wash away what was inside me.
I leaned back, exhausted, letting my head rest against the rim of the tub. The ceiling above me swirled faintly through the rising steam. I closed my eyes.
Was this what it meant to be bound to someone like him?
To feel both fury and longing tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart?
My fingers drifted to the mark on my neck, the one that throbbed faintly, as if still alive. His mark.
I swallowed hard and pulled my hand away, trembling.
I couldn’t let him have this power over me. I couldn’t let him see how deeply he’d gotten under my skin.
No matter how much my body ached for him, no matter how much his voice haunted my dreams, I couldn’t forget who I was.
I was the daughter of the man he killed.
The water had cooled by the time I finally stood. I wrapped myself in one of the plush emerald towels hanging nearby. It smelled faintly of sandalwood, his scent again. I wanted to throw it across the room, but instead, I clutched it tighter.
As I stepped back into the bedroom, the setting sun poured through the windows, turning the waves outside into molten gold. The world looked peaceful, but inside me, everything was war.
My body felt lighter but fragile, as though a single touch might shatter me. I wrapped myself in one of the thick emerald towels and stood for a while, watching the water ripple and swirl in the tub before draining away, taking the traces of my tears with it.
The room beyond the bathroom glowed softly under the amber light of dusk. I hesitated at the threshold for a long time, gripping the towel tightly against me. The bed was still a wreck, sheets tangled, the faint imprint of bodies visible in the silk. The sight sent a strange pang through my chest.
I turned away quickly.
Scattered across the chaise and floor were dozens of glossy shopping bags, luxury brands, all of them. Names I’d only seen on billboards or in magazines: Balmain, Prada, Versace, Dior. I crouched to peek inside one. Dresses, delicate fabrics, fine lingerie, all in my size. The realization made me still. He’d done this after… after last night.
A quiet ache bloomed inside me, confusion mixed with resentment. Was this his idea of kindness? To buy me silence? To dress me like a doll so I’d forget what he'd done?
Still, I couldn’t stay wrapped in a towel forever.
I reached for one of the simpler pieces, a silk slip the color of moonlight, soft against my raw skin. It slid over me like water. The straps were thin, the hem brushing mid-thigh. I paired it with a loose white robe that smelled faintly of cedar and sea breeze, probably his. It was far too big for me, and yet, the weight of it on my shoulders made me feel strangely safe.
When I finally looked around the room properly, I noticed things I hadn’t before: the tall white curtains that billowed gently in the ocean wind, the soft hum of distant waves, the faint salt tang that lingered in the air. I walked toward the balcony, drawn by the sound.
The glass doors opened with a whisper.
Outside, the sea stretched endlessly beneath the setting sun. The sky burned with fading orange and rose hues melting into dark violet. The air was cool and briny. My breath hitched as the realization settled in, we were by the seaside. Just as I’d guessed from the faint roar of water earlier.
Somewhere, far below, waves crashed against rocks in a steady rhythm. I closed my eyes and listened.
For a few blissful seconds, I let myself pretend I was alone. That I had woken in some beautiful villa by accident, free of the chains that tied me to him. That my heart wasn’t caught between hatred and a yearning I refused to name.
But reality was never that kind.
My body still ached, and exhaustion pulled at me like an undertow. My eyelids grew heavy, the sound of the sea lulling me toward sleep. I went back inside, curled into the massive bed, and told myself I’d only rest for a moment.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark. The moon had replaced the sun, casting silver ribbons across the marble floor. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed softly. Ten p.m.
I blinked, confused. How long had I been asleep?
Before I could gather my thoughts, the sound of a door opening sliced through the silence. My pulse jumped.
Footsteps, confident, measured, unhurried.
And then he was there.
Darius.
He stepped inside as though he owned the night itself. He wore black, of course, he did. The tailored shirt clung to his frame. His dark hair fell slightly into his eyes, and the faint scar running across his left eyebrow caught the light, making him look all the more dangerous.
He smiled, a small, knowing curve of his lips, and my treacherous heart fluttered.
“You’re finally awake,” he said, voice low, rich, familiar.
I swallowed hard, sitting up and clutching the robe tighter around me. I didn’t answer. My eyes darted toward the clock again, as if the glowing numbers could anchor me. Ten o’clock. Night had fully claimed the sky.
His gaze lingered on me, unreadable at first. Then, slowly, it dropped, lower, tracing the curve of my throat, the line of my collarbone… until it stopped.
I followed his stare and froze.
The skin on my chest and shoulders was red, raw from how I’d scrubbed earlier. The memory of it flashed in my mind: my hands, furious, trying to erase him from my skin.
His expression shifted. The easy calm drained from his face, replaced by something dark and sharp.
He closed the distance between us in a few long strides. The air thickened, my breath catching. I could feel the pull of his presence before he even touched me.
“Darius—” I started, but he ignored me.
With a single motion, he tugged the robe off my shoulder. I gasped, instinctively reaching to cover myself, but he caught my wrists, his fingers firm but not cruel. His eyes scanned my skin, the angry red patches that stretched across my chest, my arms. The silence between us buzzed like a live wire.
“Does my touch disgust you that much?” he asked quietly.
The question hit me like a blade, soft, but deadly. There was something in his voice I hadn’t expected. Not anger. Not arrogance. Pain.
I didn’t know what to say. My throat tightened. “I—”
His jaw flexed. “How could you do this to yourself,” he said, though it sounded more like he was speaking to himself than to me. He released me suddenly, turning away. I heard the faint click of a phone being unlocked.
“Call the doctor,” he said into it, voice clipped. “Now.”
I stared at him, stunned.
A doctor? For me?
The person on the other end must have answered quickly, because he ended the call a moment later and placed the phone back in his pocket.
When he looked back at me, the hard mask on his face faltered for just a breath. There was guilt in his eyes, or maybe I only wanted to believe that.
“You shouldn’t hurt yourself because of me,” he said finally, softer now.
Something inside me twisted.
I wanted to scream at him, to tell him that I hadn’t done it because of him, that I was trying to reclaim something he’d taken. But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, I wasn’t even sure if that was true.