Aww Seven Exes Begged Cute Blocked novel Chapter 45

**Title: A Promise Written on the Rusted Edge of Time by Dael Rowan Sire**
**Chapter 45**

That night, I transformed the bathtub into a sanctuary, filling it to the brim with water so hot it felt like liquid fire. Steam billowed upwards in thick, swirling clouds, enveloping me in a haze that I hoped would wash away the remnants of the past twenty-four hours. I yearned for the scalding water to cleanse not just my skin but also my soul, as if such a simple act could rid me of the emotional weight I carried.

As I stood before the bathroom mirror, peeling away layers of fabric, the sight that met my eyes was a stark reminder of the turmoil that had unfolded. The purple-blue marks scattered across my skin were like an unspoken narrative, each bruise and love bite a testament to moments I could never truly erase. The delicate love bites on my neck whispered of intimacy, while the fingerprint bruises on my hips bore the imprint of passion—a record of a connection that felt both intoxicating and suffocating. The evidence of his presence was stubborn, refusing to fade, just like the memories that clung to me like shadows.

Images from the previous night surged back, uninvited, flooding my mind with their vividness. I could still feel the burning heat of his skin pressed against mine, the way his warm breath danced against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. I recalled how he had whispered my name in the dark, a sound so intimate it echoed in my heart. The ghost of his touch lingered, as if phantom hands were tracing patterns across my body, igniting a fire that I desperately wished to extinguish. The warmth of his chest against my back, his fingers intertwining with mine—these were memories I wanted to forget, yet they clung to me with an unyielding grip.

I shook my head violently, my fingers gripping the edges of the sink until my knuckles turned a ghostly white. I was trying to expel these fragments of madness, these moments that had meant everything to me yet seemed to hold no significance for him. It was a cruel irony, one that twisted my heart in knots.

With determination, I grabbed my roughest loofah, scrubbing my skin with fervor as if I could physically erase the traces of his lips from my body. I scrubbed until my skin turned an angry shade of red, focusing on my arms, my neck, my chest—everywhere he had dared to leave his mark. I wished that maybe, just maybe, the physical pain could overshadow the deeper ache that throbbed within my chest, a pain that felt all-consuming.

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