The first rays of dawn crept through the sheer curtains of the marital chamber like guilty fingers, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stale air—each one a silent witness to the betrayal that had occurred in the night, each one carrying the scent of sandalwood and sex and submission that clung to Taehyung's skin like a second shadow. She lay rigid beside her husband, her body aching in places that sang with Jungkook's possession, her womb heavy with the four loads of seed he had deposited inside her throughout the long, dark hours of their secret communion.

Junghyun stirred beside her, his hand reaching out in sleepy habit to rest on her hip—the same hip that bore bruises in the shape of his father's fingers, the same hip that had been gripped with brutal possessiveness mere hours ago while she screamed for more, for deeper, for complete destruction. His touch felt foreign now, like a stranger's hand, like an insult to the marks Jungkook had left, to the claiming that had rewritten her body and soul.