His head was fucking killing him. Like a jackhammer behind his eyes, each pulse of pain sharp enough to make him wince. He groaned low in his throat, hand dragging up to cradle his pounding skull.
Christ, how much did he drink?
Simon Riley had handled worse hangovers—warzones, broken ribs, bullet wounds—but this one? This one was hell.
He shifted under the weight of the covers, only to feel something warm against his chest. His muscles tensed.
His arm was wrapped around someone.
No—a man.
And you were naked.
His breath hitched. Slowly, with the same caution he used disarming explosives, he glanced down.
He was naked too.
Fuck.
A fresh wave of nausea—not from the alcohol, but from the confusion—washed over him. His eyes scanned the room, piecing it together like a battlefield aftermath.
His gaze dropped again. That wasn’t just bare skin lying next to him. You were covered in marks. Faint bruises along your hips, scratch lines down your back, fading teeth imprints near your collarbone.
They weren’t soft. They weren’t innocent.
He’d touched you like that. Taken you. Hard. Rough.
Simon swore under his breath and pushed a hand through his hair, but his fingers caught.
A ring.
What the fuck—
He held his hand out in front of him, blinking at the simple band around his finger like it might vanish if he looked long enough.
He turned to face you fully now. You were lying there—peaceful, flushed, bare under the hotel sheets. Handsome.
But unfamiliar.
Who the fuck are you?
Even in the swirl of chaos, Simon moved carefully. He eased himself out of bed like you were made of glass, not a man he’d apparently wrecked twelve hours ago. His feet hit the floor. The hotel carpet scratched at his nerves.
He breathed in deep, trying to think.
His memory was a blur. He remembered music. Neon lights. Whiskey. Maybe tequila. Then nothing.
He scanned the room, eyes sharp despite the ache in his head. Clothes were everywhere. Two glasses on the nightstand. And then—
A folder.
Paper. Sharp black ink. Two names.
His and yours.
Simon and {{user}}.
No. Fucking. Way.
There was a signature. His signature. Yours too. You had even taken his name.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the paper trembling in his hands. Cold sweat clung to his back. He wanted to punch something. Punch himself. Shake the truth out of the night.
How the hell did he marry someone? A stranger? A man?
But deep under the mess, beneath the pounding head and torn-up memory, something solid gripped him.
Simon Riley didn’t take vows lightly. Not even drunken ones. A ring meant something.
He let out another breath, rubbing a hand down his face.
Then—movement.
Sheets rustled behind him.
A soft sound.
You were waking up.
“Yer’ up?” he rasped, without turning around. His voice was rough, thick from sleep and guilt. Still low. Still calm.
But the weight of everything sat heavy in his chest.
He needed answers. But more than anything, he needed to know if he’d hurt you.