Lying back in the tub, Della tried to steady her breathing, closing her eyes and allowing the heat to wash over her. She needed to calm down, to think clearly. But all she could picture was Hunter's face, his eyes boring into hers as they had in the church, full of intensity and something else she couldn't quite name.
As the steam curled around her, she felt the warmth of the water caressing her skin, and in her mind, it became his touch—slow, gentle, and filled with promise. She imagined his hands tracing the curve of her arm, leaving a trail of tingling warmth in their wake. The way his fingers would linger at the sensitive spot near her wrist before gliding upward, his touch firm but soft, like he was savoring every inch of her.
Her breath hitched as she imagined his lips brushing against her neck, featherlight, just enough to make her skin prickle with anticipation. She could almost feel his breath, warm and teasing against her ear, whispering sweet words that sent shivers down her spine. She pictured him pulling her closer, his hands moving down to her waist, his grip both protective and possessive. It was as if he was telling her without words that she was his, and that he wanted her—desperately.
Her heartbeat quickened, and she could feel the heat building inside her, mingling with the warmth of the water. She imagined his lips trailing down the curve of her shoulder, leaving a path of soft kisses that made her pulse race. Her skin felt alive under his imaginary touch, every nerve tingling as if he were there, holding her, making her feel like she was the center of his world.
Della's fingers lightly grazed the surface of the water, and she imagined it was his fingers threading through her hair, pulling her closer as his lips found hers. She could almost taste the kiss, sweet and slow, a promise of everything they could be. Her breath quickened, and she felt her chest rise and fall as the image of him filled her senses. The water, the steam, and the quiet of the room faded away, leaving only the fantasy of Hunter's touch, his warmth, and the electric connection between them.
In that moment, she let herself imagine what it would be like to truly belong to him, to let go of all the secrets, the lies, and the fears, and just feel. She pictured the way his hands would cradle her face, how his eyes would soften with affection before he kissed her with a passion that would set her soul on fire.
But as she opened her eyes, the fantasy dissolved into the reality of the empty bathroom. *No,* she told herself, her hands gripping the sides of the tub. *This is dangerous. You can't let yourself fall for him. You have to keep your distance. He is but a stranger* But
Her chest still heaved, her skin still felt warm, and she knew that even though it had only been an imagination, her feelings were all too real. And that was what scared her most of all.
But the thought felt empty, and Della knew she was already too far gone. She felt trapped between the life she was living and the life she had stolen, the lies she told herself and the truths she could no longer deny. And the worst part was, she wasn't sure she could find her way out.
Della stepped out of the tub, her body still warm from the heat of the water. She grabbed the large black robe hanging on the bathroom hook—a simple, loose piece that draped over her like a dress, stopping just above her knees. She stared at the eyes contact, It was an item Diego had told her to wear, something he said highlighted her best features. As she adjusted the fabric, she caught her reflection in the mirror, her gaze drawn to her eyes—big, bright, and green.
She hated those eyes. Diego said they were beautiful, captivating even, and that they made her different from Emily. But Della saw them as a curse. She had spent years hating the green that marked her as different, years hearing whispers from people who said she looked like a "green witch." They had mocked her, their words cruel and sharp, telling her that her eyes must be enchanted, that she must be hiding some dark power behind them. Her eyes, they said, were unnatural, a mark of a girl who was somehow wrong.
Emily, on the other hand, had perfect blue eyes like the sea—just like her mother's. People adored Emily for it. Her beauty was classic, angelic even. But Della felt like an imposter wearing someone else's skin. She loathed the comparison. She loathed the scars she carried, scars she could hide beneath clothes but would always feel burning on her skin.
Della's hand drifted to her side, to the raised mark hidden beneath the black fabric. The scar from that day—when she couldn't take it anymore. She was sixteen, and the laughter and whispers had reached a peak she couldn't bear. She'd locked herself in the school bathroom, and with shaking hands, she'd drawn the blade across her skin. The pain had been a relief, a sharp reminder that she was still alive, even if she felt dead inside. But it wasn't deep enough. Someone found her, called for help, and she was rushed to the hospital.
Her parents hadn't known how to react. They were scared, whispering about what people would say, how the other families would judge them. No one had visited her in the hospital except Diego, her best friend and parents. He was the only one who seemed to care if she lived or died. He'd held her hand, told her that she was stronger than any of them. He'd said that her scars were just marks of her survival.
But Della didn't see them that way. The scar was a reminder of her failure, a permanent mark of her weakness. She still felt the shame every time she touched it, every time she felt the rough, raised skin beneath her fingertips. No amount of makeup, no fancy clothes, or compliments from Diego could erase the memory of that day.