Savannah

The next morning, I woke up and immediately decided to pretend I was still asleep. The reason?

There was a large, warm presence behind me, holding me as if he had no intention of ever letting go. Roman was already awake; I could tell by the steady, controlled rhythm of his breathing against my neck.

I had no idea how to face him. Not after the vulnerability of last night.

"I know you're awake," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

I fought the urge to flinch. Instead, I stayed perfectly still, maintaining the slow, rhythmic breathing of someone deep in sleep.

He let out a low, dangerous chuckle that vibrated against my back, making my skin prickle. "So that's how you want to play it? Then let's play, love."

My pulse jumped, but he didn't move. A minute passed. Then another. He just held me—warm, solid, and impossibly close. Just as I began to relax, his hand moved.

He didn't rush. His palm came to rest against me, a slow, deliberate touch that felt like a claim. I kept my eyes shut tight, even as his thumb began a lazy, rhythmic motion that sent a slow roll of heat coiling through my center.

"Still asleep, Savannah?" his voice was a low, amused rumble.

He knew. He knew exactly how my body was betraying my silent act. His touch was patient, a calculated unraveling of my defenses. When his hand slid lower, past the waistband of my shorts, my breath hitched despite my best efforts.

He found the evidence of my reaction—the heat, the undeniable way my body was responding to his presence even in my feigned slumber. He let out a sound of pure, masculine satisfaction.

"Such a bad liar," he murmured against my skin.

His touch became more insistent, a slow, maddening cadence that made the world behind my eyelids spin. I gripped the sheets, my toes curling, trying to suppress the whimper clawing at my throat. Every nerve ending was on fire, alert and breathless. He moved with a wicked patience, hitting every spark of sensation until I was a trembling mess beneath his hands.

"You're shaking," he smirked, his breath hot against my ear. "You're right on the edge, pretending to be a good girl... while all you want to do is cry out."

I was falling apart silently. Just as I thought I couldn't take another second of the exquisite torture, a sharp knock echoed through the room.

"Savannah, dear!" my mother’s voice filtered through the door. "Your sister is home! We need you downstairs. Can you come down, please?"

I could have cried from the sudden interruption. Roman stilled, but he didn't pull away immediately. He leaned in, pressing a final, lingering kiss to my shoulder before retreating.

"I'm coming," I called out, my voice sounding sleep-rough and strained.

Roman stood up, looking down at me with a devilish smirk as he headed toward the bathroom. "Better get going, love," he said with a wink. "You wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

I glared at his back, frustrated and pulse still racing.

But the playfulness of the morning vanished the moment I walked downstairs. The scene in the kitchen made my stomach drop instantly.

Dean was there.

He was perched on a stool at the island, a bag of frozen peas pressed to his face. He sported a darkening black eye and a split lip—the visible marks of Roman’s fury from the night before. Chloe was hovering over him like he was a wounded hero, and the rest of my family stood around them in a grim circle.

The second I entered the room, Dean looked up. He didn't look ashamed; he looked venomous. He raised a finger and pointed it directly at me.

"It was her fault," he spat, his voice thick with fake indignation. "Savannah is the one to blame for this.