Anthony's POV
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Her fingers slid into mine—and stopped.
She was about to speak, maybe to ask why my hands were trembling… why they were so stained with blood.
But she didn't.
Instead, she held them—gently.
Like they weren't something to fear.
I looked down.
My knuckles were bone-white, one split open from the blow. The blood was dark and crusted, some of it still fresh, streaking across my skin—painting my sin for her to see.
And still... she didn't let go.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight from everything I couldn't say.
She looked up at me—those blue eyes too warm, too soft, too forgiving… for someone like me.
"Come," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
I should've turned away. I should've walked straight to my room the second I saw her sitting there on the couch.
And even now—it's not too late.
I could bury this moment under every excuse I'd used before.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
So I followed.
