I shake my head, teeth gritted, but the memories flood in anyway—how his hands felt on my skin, how his mouth dragged moans out of me I didn’t want to make. I curl into myself, desperate to disappear.
“You’re just as sick as he is.”
No. That’s not true.
He’s the one who broke in, who pushed, who wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t want it. I didn’t.
“Liar. You never blocked his number. You wanted him to keep texting you.”
My stomach twists. I press my hand against my mouth, choking on a sob.
I could have called the police. I could have told Sam. I could have run farther, hidden better.
“But you didn’t. You enjoyed being hunted. You enjoyed feeling wanted, even if it was twisted and wrong.”
Tears sting my eyes. I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. I can’t break down now. Not while he’s still here.
I shift slowly, trying to edge away from him, but his arm tightens around me, pulling me back against his chest. His lipsbrush the back of my neck, even in sleep, and I shiver—hating the way my skin prickles with awareness.
“You let him inside. You let him ruin you.”
My breathing hitches. I dig my nails into my thigh, needing the pain to ground me. I want to scream at the voice to shut up, but it’s relentless, whispering all the truths I don’t want to face.
“You’re not a victim. You’re a willing participant. You wanted him to force you. You wanted to feel helpless.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.
No. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t ask for him to stalk me, to invade my life, to push me until I snapped.
“But you didn’t say no. You never really meant it.”
A sob tears from my throat. I press my face into the pillow, hoping he doesn’t hear. I can’t let him see me like this—weak and unraveling, torn apart by my own twisted desires.
“You’re broken. Just like him.”
I shake my head, whispering, “No… I’m not. I’m not like him.”
But the truth slithers in, vicious and sharp.
I didn’t stop him. I could have fought harder. I could have screamed for help.
But I didn’t.
Deep down, in that dark, sick part of me… I wanted him to take it. To make me feel something other than fear. To push me until I couldn’t think. Until I couldn’t fight.
I bite down on the pillow, muffling my sobs. He shifts behind me, and I go still, terrified he’ll wake up and see the mess he’s made of me.
“You’re addicted to him,”the voice whispers, softer now, almost mocking.
I choke on a breath, because I know it’s true. The fear and the thrill are tangled together, impossible to separate. I can still feelhis hands on me—rough, possessive—claiming me like I’m his to break.
And the worst part?
A part of me wants him to do it again.
“You can’t get rid of him now,”the voice hisses.“You let him inside. He’ll never leave. You belong to him, and you love that you do.”
A shiver runs through me. I’ll never admit it out loud. I can’t.
