Chapter 8 The Taste of Regret

I woke up suddenly, gasping. My body was drenched in sweat and confusion. Panic rose in my chest as I took in the unfamiliar room. For a terrifying moment, I thought everything had been a dream, that Marcelo hadn't come... that the creep at the club had succeeded.

But then I saw it.

Marcelo's jacket was still draped over me, his scent-sandalwood-soothing my senses like a balm. My hands clutched the fabric to my chest, grounding myself. He came. He saved me. I wasn't alone.

Still, I didn't know where I was. Dizzy and weak, I got up slowly. My legs trembled beneath me, the memories of the night before swirling in fragments. The drinks. The noise. Ben. Had he abandoned me? Or was he just as confused?

I moved toward a small table, took a shaky sip of water, then froze. Screams. Real, guttural screams echoed from somewhere in the house. I ran to the door and peeked into the hallway, following the sound like something possessed.

The basement.

When I pushed open the heavy door

and descended the stairs, my breath caught.

It was like a private hell-dried blood, concrete, the metallic tang of iron in the air. Marcelo stood there, looming, his white shirt soaked in red. His fist landed one last brutal blow to the man on the floor. It was Dave. Sophie's boyfriend, the one who'd ogled me all night.

Marcelo looked possessed. His dark eyes met mine, and something feral flashed across his face.

"This is for touching what's mine," he growled, grabbing a pair of pliers to his fingers.

I turned, heart in my throat, and ran. I barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting everything in my stomach. My body trembled, not just from the violence I'd witnessed-but from what it meant.

Marcelo wasn't just dangerous. He was terrifying.

He stormed in moments later, shirtless, bloodstained watch clutched in one hand. He tossed it on the table and moved toward the bathroom. I followed him, rage and confusion boiling in me.

"Did you kill him?" I demanded, voice cracking.

He ignored me. Instead, he stood under the shower, letting the water rinse the blood away. His silence was deafening.

"Answer me, Marcelo!"

He turned, eyes meeting mine. "Join me," he said quietly. And for the first time, I heard something in his voice that shattered me.

"Please."

I don't know what made me step in. Maybe it was the rawness in his tone. Maybe it was the stupid part of me that still wanted to believe he cared.

The water drenched my cloth, still it was warm and soothing, washing away the night-if only for a moment.

"Marcelo..."

He turned and pulled me into a kiss that stole every thought from my head. The kiss was desperate, hungry, and aching. His mouth devoured mine with an urgency that made my knees buckle. I melted into him, letting his hands roam, gripping my waist, pulling me impossibly close.

His tongue slid over my lips, asking-no, begging-for entry, and when I gave in, it was like something inside me snapped. I moaned into him as his body pressed against mine, every inch of him hot and demanding.

He backed me into the shower wall, lips never leaving mine, his hands tangling in my hair as water streamed down our bodies. I felt his grip tighten around my neck, just enough to make me shiver and it made me burn. I hated him. I wanted him. I needed him to stop. I needed him to never stop.

When he finally pulled away, we were both breathless. He pressed his forehead to mine, eyes closed.

"Fuck... I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."

I froze.

That's what shattered me.

Because for the first time, he wasn't the predator or the monster. He was human. Broken. Scared. And I hated myself for wanting to comfort him.

After that, we were silent throughout.

Marcelo didn't say another word after his apology, just handed me clean clothes-one of his oversized hoodies and a pair of sweatpants that swallowed my frame. Still, I took them without a word. There was something comforting about wearing his scent again, even if I hated myself for finding comfort in it.

He stepped out of the room, waiting for me in the hallway like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't kissed me breathless in the shower. Like he hadn't just bared a part of himself that shook me to my core.

I followed, hesitant but quiet, down the hall and toward the staircase. Outside, the air was cooler now,m. Two cars were parked in the driveway-one was the familiar black SUV with Diego already at the wheel, the other was sleek, low, and unfamiliar.

I thought Marcelo and I were leaving together.

I was wrong.

He stopped and gestured toward the SUV. "Diego will take you home."

I blinked. My mouth parted slightly. "You're not... coming?"

Before he could answer, a woman stepped out of the sleek car.

She was stunning. Her tight red dress clung to every inch of her hourglass frame, her cleavage pushed high and deliberate, her long legs gliding across the stone as she walked straight to Marcelo like she belonged to him.

And maybe she did.

She gave him a sultry smile and leaned in, her arms wrapping around his neck before pressing her lips to his. He didn't pull away. He kissed her back. Deeply.

Then his hand gripped her ass possessively, as if he hadn't just been in the shower kissing me like he needed me to breathe.

I stood there, frozen.

He opened the car door for her like a gentleman. She climbed in, and without so much as a glance in my direction, he circled to the driver's side and got in.

And then he drove away.

He didn't say goodbye. Didn't look back. Not even once.

I was trembling again-except this time, it wasn't fear.

It was heartbreak.

Diego stepped beside me, saying nothing. He looked at me like he wanted to say something, like he pitied me. I looked away, forcing the tears to stay inside.

I felt so stupid.

So used.

I wrapped my arms around myself, Marcelo's hoodie clinging to me like a cruel joke.

"Fuck you, Marcelo," I whispered under my breath, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I don't need you."

But deep down... I wasn't sure I believed that.