Chapter 168 Unknown number
Ethan’s POV
"What?" Clara spun to face me, startled by the shift in my voice.
"The birthmark," I said, sharper now. "Behind your ear. Where is it?"
Small as a freckle, tucked somewhere you’d never notice unless you were looking.
I hadn’t thought about it in years. But tonight, with my wolf riding this close to the surface, instinct had sent me searching for it—and found nothing.
"I had it removed," Clara said quickly. "I told you already. Don’t you remember?"
"Why would you remove it?" My wolf paced, snarling low in my chest. "It wasn’t visible. It never bothered anyone. That mark—"
I stopped myself. But the thought had already formed.
That mark was the only proof I had of the woman who’d saved my life.
The night I’d recognized Clara as that woman, years ago, the birthmark had been my confirmation. The one detail I’d clung to like a lifeline.
"Why?" I asked again, voice raw.
She fumbled. "It was in a bad spot—superstition, with the company going public, I thought—"
She didn’t finish.
I stared at her, chest tight, my wolf snarling somewhere behind my ribs, pacing a cage that suddenly felt too small.
That mark had meant everything. The one piece of her I’d carried with me all this time.
And she’d erased it.
"I need some air," I said, flat.
"Ethan, wait—"
I didn’t stop. I walked out onto the balcony and locked the door behind me.
My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone.
I shouldn’t do this.
I knew that.
But my wolf was howling now, clawing through every wall of control I had left—and before I could stop myself, I was already dialing Aria’s number.
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Aria’s POV
I’d just stepped out of the shower, my hair pinned up in a loose, damp twist, a few wet strands clinging to the nape of my neck.
Barefoot, still warm from the water, I padded into the kitchen to cut some fruit for Damian.
The tile was cool under my soles, a sharp contrast to the heat still humming under my skin.
I was mid-slice through an apple when I felt him—that familiar heat pressing up against my back, his body solid and overwhelming as his arms caged me against the counter.
His breath ghosted over the curve of my ear, and I shivered hard, my neck instinctively curling away from the ticklish sensation. But he didn’t let me escape.
His hips pinned me gently against the counter’s edge, and I felt him—all of him—already stirring against the small of my back.
Then his fingers found a spot just behind my ear. Cool against my flushed skin, tracing slow, deliberate circles.
"This little mark of yours," his voice came low, rough, almost reverent. "It’s beautiful."
"Mark?" I tried to turn my head, but his fingers held me still, and his thumb dragged down the side of my throat—slow, possessive. "What mark?"
I hadn’t even known there was anything there.
"I just noticed it," Damian murmured, and his breath grew heavier, hotter against that spot. His lips brushed the shell of my ear—barely a touch, but it sent a pulse straight between my legs. "Hidden. But—"
He stopped.
The air around us charged, thick and electric.
I felt the change in his body instantly—the way his chest expanded against my back, the way his grip on my hip tightened, fingers digging in just shy of bruising.
"But what?" I turned in his arms.
The movement caught him off-guard.
His shoulder pressed forward and suddenly my back was against the cabinet, but his hand shot out to cup the back of my head before it could hit the wood.
Lightning-fast. Protective even when he was losing control.
His face was inches from mine. Those gray eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide with barely restrained hunger.
I knew my own must have looked the same—lips parted, breath shallow, chest rising and falling too fast.
"But it drives me fucking insane," he finished, his voice a ragged scrape. "That little hidden mark. Makes me want to put my mouth on it and not stop until you’re shaking."
He didn’t give me time to respond. His mouth crashed into mine.
The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was devouring. His tongue slid past my lips and claimed me with a thoroughness that made my knees buckle.
I made a sound—half whimper, half moan—and let my head fall back, exposing my throat to him.
He took the invitation immediately. His mouth left mine and traced a burning path down the column of my neck, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, until he reached that spot behind my ear.
He sucked—hard—and the sensation shot through me like a live wire.
"Damian." His name came out strangled.
Heat flooded my body, liquid and urgent. Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed. My fingers fisted into the back of his shirt, nails digging into the hard muscle beneath.
I could feel every ridge of his abdomen pressed against me, the solid wall of his chest, and lower—god, lower—the unmistakeable evidence of exactly what I was doing to him.
Damian kissed like he did everything else—with devastating, single-minded focus. Each stroke of his tongue was calculated to undo me.
The counter’s edge dug into my spine. I squirmed, trying to find a better angle, and he read my body instantly.
His hands slid down to my thighs and he lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing.
My legs wrapped around his waist on pure instinct, and the new position pressed him right where I needed him most.
A low, helpless sound escaped my throat.
God, the feeling of him against me—hard and hot and barely leashed—
His hand slipped under the hem of my shirt. His palm was fire on my bare stomach, fingers splaying wide, inching upward with excruciating slowness.
I arched into his touch without thinking, silently begging for more.
That’s when my phone rang.
Right behind me on the counter. Loud and jarring.
I couldn’t have cared less. Neither could Damian. His thumb traced the underside of my breast and my vision went hazy at the edges, a moan catching in my throat.
But the ringing didn’t stop. Whoever it was kept calling back.
"Damian—" I gasped against his mouth.
He reached past me and grabbed the phone. His expression flickered—irritation hardening into something sharper as he glanced at the screen.
Unknown number.