Page 76 of Suite 7

I pull her closer and let it go, and hold her instead, and think about tonight, and don’t think about what Marcel said.

14 Kane

I wake at six-thirty and lie still for a moment.

Vera is still asleep, curled into me. One hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting on my forearm where it wraps around her waist.

I give myself five minutes of watching her. The slope of her nose. The fan of her lashes. The stillness of her face.

Then her eyes flutter open.

“Morning,” I say.

“Hi.” She blinks. “Oh god. I stayed.”

“You did.”

“I have work at nine.”

“Stay for coffee,” I say.

She shifts to sit up and immediately winces, hand going to her hip.

“Careful.” I catch her waist. “How bad?”

“Not bad. Just—” She makes a face. “Sitting is going to be interesting today.”

“Let me see.”

“Kane—”

“Let me see.”

She considers arguing. But a moment later she chooses to roll onto her stomach with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Inspect your handiwork, Sinclair.”

I pull back the sheet.

Pink-to-red across her skin, the marks settled overnight into a deeper flush. A few areas show the distinct outline where the wood made contact. Nothing broken. Nothing beyond what’s normal for impact play. The marks will fade in a day or two.

I run my fingers over them, checking for heat, for anything beyond surface level. Warm but not inflamed.

“Does it hurt to touch?”

“A little. Good hurt, though.” She glances back at me over her shoulder. “Honestly? I kind of like it.”

“Like what?”

“That you can see it. That there’s proof.” Her voice goes soft. “Makes it more real. Like I didn’t just dream the whole thing.”

I lean down, press a kiss to one of the marks. Then another.

“It was real. Every second of it.”

“Good.” She relaxes under my touch. “Because I’d hate to think I hallucinated the best night of my life.”

I smile against her skin. “Best?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Sinclair.”