Chapter 3

POV: Clara

Clara woke wet and sticky, the sheets tangled around her legs like ropes. She couldn’t get comfortable anymore. Sleep was the only thing keeping her raw at the moment, and it had deserted her yet again.

The room was hot despite the window being cracked open.

Clara rolled onto her back, the heel of her palm against her forehead. “God,” she said. Her body felt like it was buzzing skin burning, breasts heavy and aching, thighs slick in a way she wasn’t ready to think about.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t right.

It felt like last night was replaying in her head on some obscene reel that she couldn’t shut off.

Daniel’s mouth at her throat. The dark, gruff timbre of his voice as he’d whispered demands no man should have asked of a complete stranger. The way her body had leapt up to meet his, instantly eager and willing, as if it had been waiting for him.

Her face flushed. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to push it all away.

It was just sex.

And that wasn’t true, was it? Not with the way he’d held her hips down like he was claiming her, not with the way she’d torn herself open and cried out his name, begging.

And most of all, not with the way he—

Her thighs snapped tight, her whole body hot with the memory that fought into her brain. Him spreading her, filling her up, the way he’d held so deep at the end—like he was going to give her everything until he couldn’t give her another second.

Clara sucked in a breath, fists clenching in the sheets. God, she was fucking pissed at herself.

“Stop it.”

It didn’t help. Words sounded hollow in the half-dark room. Her body still thrummed with an ache low in her belly, dull but relentless. Her nipples rubbed against the cotton of her tank top, sensitive to the point that the brush of fabric made her whimper. She buried her face in a pillow to muffle the sound, but it only made the pressure there more keen, bitter and unyielding.

Her brain called for Rob as a lifeline, but even that memory stung. Rob’s hands had been too rough, his voice too harsh, his touch staking ownership over bruises she hadn’t wanted. Sex with him was another way to shut her up, to break her down piece by piece.

So why the fuck was her body crying out for Daniel?

Her stomach twisted. The comparison made bile rise in her throat. Rob had taken from her, always taken from her, leaving her empty and ashamed. Daniel… Daniel had taken from her, too, but then he’d left her wanting more. That was worse. So much worse. Because she couldn’t understand why her body longed for him instead of the other way around.

Her breath hitched. She shoved out of bed, chest hammering, stomach churning sickly with nausea. The bathroom mirror didn’t help. Her reflection looked flushed, hollow-eyed, with her pupils blown wide like she’d been on drugs.

She traced her fingers over her face, then down her throat, remembering the scratch of stubble there, the heat of his breath.

“No,” Clara said with conviction, gripping the sink. “This isn’t happening. You’re just tired. It’s just…” Her voice wavered. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

Her senses were too alive. The drop of the faucet sounded like a drum. The neighbor’s dog barked two streets over and Clara flinched. The faintest whiff of woodsmoke still lingered in her hair, and it made her stomach pitch back and forth between nausea and hunger.

And underneath it all, like a cruel joke, she swore she could still smell him. Pine. Musk. Something wild and steadfast.

Her knees went weak, and she dropped both hands to the sink, bowing her head.

Why him? Why now?

Her brain defied her with another fragment, one that sliced like a knife: the press of his hands over her thighs, gripping her open; the low snarl of his voice when she clenched around him; the full weight of his body anchoring her down on that motel mattress. She remembered his cock swelling inside of her, and the way she’d gasped and cried out—not from pain, but from fullness so complete she thought she’d die. Clara’s reflection blurred as her eyes filled with tears. She hated herself for wanting that feeling back.

Jenny’s voice echoed in her head from last night: You can’t keep hiding from people forever.

Clara’s throat tightened. Hiding had been the only thing keeping her safe. And now—one night, one fuck, one stranger—and her walls were already cracking.

Her hand drifted down almost without thought, pressing against her lower belly. It took Clara a second to process the gesture—it felt instinctual, almost protective. She parted her lips and a whisper broke free before she could stop it.

“Something’s wrong.”

The words hung in the silence of the bathroom, thick as smoke.

Her fingers pressed firmer, locating the tension she couldn’t quite name, the drawn-up feel of her abdomen. A ridiculous thought sliced through her mind: what if he had left something in her? Something that was already changing her from the inside out? Heat rushed up her neck, shame and panic weaving together. She shook her head, whispering again, harsher this time: “No. Not possible.” But her hand still lingered over her belly, trembling.

She ripped her hand away and gripped the counter so hard her knuckles went white. “No,” she said to her reflection. “No. Nothing’s wrong.”

But she knew it was a lie.

Heat radiated from her body and the insistent weight beneath her palm told her she was wrong.

Her breath came faster. She stumbled away from the mirror, backtracking into her bedroom like distance might make it go away. Curling back into the sheets, she tucked her knees against her chest and rocked faintly, whispering the mantra: “It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.” But her skin still smelled like pine and smoke and her body still hummed with a desire that wasn’t hers anymore.

The second hand of the clock on the nightstand ticked loud. Each tick seemed to mock her.

And when her eyes closed finally, exhaustion dragging her under, her dreams burned worse than before. Teeth and claws and his voice calling her name like it was his. Clara whimpered in her sleep, tears tracking her cheeks as her hand moved on its own to cup over her belly, as if her body already knew the truth she couldn’t face. In her dream, she heard his growl, hot and low in her ear: Mine. Clara jolted awake with a strangled cry, her heart racing, and for one terrifying moment, she swore the echo hadn’t come from her dream at all—but from outside her window.