Page 22 of The Scars We Keep
I close my eyes.
Ethan would never have touched me like that.
He was soft kisses, careful touches, and the whispers of “I love you” against my lips.He was patient—the kind of boy you give your heart to because you know he’ll hold it gently.
Lorenzo isn’t soft nor will he ever be.He’s all brute force and unspoken rules.The kind of guy who fucks like he’s punishing me for something I haven’t done yet.
I reach for his side of the bed again.
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter to myself.I hate that a twisted part of me was hoping he’d still be here.
I sit up, wincing, my skin rubbed raw.My thighs ache, and my ribs burn.There’s a deep purple bruise on the inside of my thigh.
He fucking branded me, stamped me like I’m his property.
My eyes flick to the foot of the bed where two bags sit.
They weren’t there before when I was half-naked and completely exhausted.When I collapsed onto this mattress hours ago, with Lorenzo’s fingerprints still burned onto my skin, my thighs sticky with the memory of what we did.
So, that means someone came in here while I was asleep.
A sharp surge of anger builds in my throat.
“Fuck.That.”
I push the sheets off, every inch of my body aching as I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I don’t give a shit if I’m wearing a De Luca ring now or if Lorenzo’s name is inked on my fucking soul.This world plays dirty, and sleep is when they slit your goddamn throat.Vulnerability isn’t a weakness.It’s an invitation.
And the fact that someone came in here while I was out cold makes my body shiver.
Lorenzo is going to hear about this.
Loudly.
Violently.
Maybe with broken dishes.
One bag is matte black leather, sleek and luxurious.The other’s a soft, casual duffle.
I grab the leather bag first and unzip it.Inside are rows of neatly folded clothes—silk, cashmere, tailored blouses, fuck-me heels, and high-end lingerie still in tissue paper.
There’s a black dress with tags I don’t recognize, probably stitched by someone’s mistress in Milan.I lift it out.It’s so soft it drips between my fingers.Beneath that, I find a deep red dress that looks like it was made for public sex, and a matching set of lingerie that screams “fuck me now” louder than I ever could.
I turn to the second bag.
It contains something entirely different: stretchy tights, designer jeans, crop tops, soft T-shirts in charcoal and black, a couple of hoodies, and even a sports bra that’s somehow exactly the one I’d choose if I had the luxury to pick.Comfortable underwear.
None of it belongs to me.But whoever chose this has good taste.
I’d packed three bags to bring with me, but in all the chaos of last night, they never made it here.
We lasted an hour after the ceremony.
One.Fucking.Hour.
After the little stunt I pulled off standing in front of a thousand Serrano eyes in a black funeral dress, ripping their sacred traditions to shreds, my father was foaming at the mouth.The kind that promises blood later.
