Ray's POV
Her skin was damp against mine, breath slowing, heartbeat still stuttering beneath the bruises my mouth had left—marks I shouldn't have put there, but couldn't help claiming.
Sky.
My Sky.
She was lying half on my chest, her thigh tangled over my hip, her fingers curled weakly in the sheets. The black gown was a crumpled memory on the floor, and my shirt—buttonless now—was hanging off her shoulder, the fabric swallowing her frame.
I'd broken her a little tonight.
Not just with my mouth. Not just with my hands. But with the weight of everything we'd held back for so long—now released in a single, brutal, breathless collision.
And now, she couldn't even sit up.
She tried. A tiny whimper left her lips.
"Don't," I said immediately, slipping an arm under her and pulling her fully onto me. "Don't even think about moving."
"I can't feel my legs," she muttered, voice hoarse, dazed. "What the hell, Ray Maddox."
I smiled into her hair. "You're the one who told me to shut up and take the dress off."
She gave me a sleepy glare. "You ripped it."
"You moaned when I did."
She didn't argue.
Instead, she hid her face in my neck, and for a second, I just held her there—quiet, wrapped in post-chaos softness. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the outline of my collarbone. My thumb grazed the angry, blooming purples across hers.
Too dark. Too much.
I sat up slightly, careful not to jostle her. "Let me get the ointment."
"No," she mumbled. "Don't move. Just… stay."
"I'll stay," I said. "But I'm still treating those bruises."
She looked down at her skin and winced. "They're not going away for weeks."
"They will. And even if they don't… I'll cover them in diamonds."
She chuckled weakly. "You're such a menace."
"I'm your menace."
I rose carefully, wrapped her in a blanket, and made it to the bathroom. Came back with a warm washcloth, cream, water. Set everything on the nightstand like I'd done it a hundred times before.
She didn't protest when I lifted her gently and cleaned her up. Not a word when I dabbed the ointment onto the skin of her thighs, her hips, her collarbone.
Only when I kissed the inside of her wrist—soft, slow, reverent—did she finally whisper, "Ray?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not gonna disappear in the morning, right?"
That broke something in me. A memory of her once flinching when I raised my voice. Her trembling when she thought her father might find out. Her silence the night I stopped texting back out of fear I'd ruin her.
Now she was here. In my bed. In my name. In my goddamn soul.
"No," I said, pulling the blanket over us. "I'm not disappearing."
"Good," she whispered. "Because I'm not done loving you."
I let her fall asleep tangled in my arms, black hair fanned across my chest, bruises fading under the balm, her heartbeat syncing with mine.
And I lay awake just a little longer—watching her, loving her, promising her silently:
Next time, I'll be gentler.
Next time, I'll make her feel worshipped.
Because after everything she's survived…
She deserves nothing less.
The end.
Signing off.
Siddhii Singh.