Alessio didn’t sleep.

Noa woke in a haze of bruised skin, sore lips, and the faintest sting across his throat. The air still smelled of his expensive cologne, cigarettes, and the sweat of dominance. The scent clung to the sheets, to Noa’s hair, to his own skin that felt too hot and too tender to move. His body hummed with exhaustion, every nerve raw, but Alessio hadn’t moved.

He sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, tattoos cutting into the dark like warnings etched into flesh. The ink ...