But deep down, I know there were other options.
Roman and I might not see eye to eye regarding Dad, but he’s still my big brother, and awildlyoverprotective one at that.
He also happens to run one of the biggest bratva families in the country.
So yeah, there were other ways out of my predicament that didn’t involve going to Blackbriar Hall tonight. Ways that didn’t involve letting Vaughn inflict all that humiliation and savagery on me. I could have come clean to Roman. I could have told him about my meeting with Vaughn, and Andrés, and about Diego’s threats. It might have caused utter chaos and maybe even started a war, but it would have meant not going tonight.
I knew that.
I still went.
Still looked the monster in the eye.
Still spread my legs for him and let him take me any way he wanted.
And the worst part isn’t even that I let that all happen.
It’s thatI liked it.
Maybe there’s still part of me that’s angry about how I lost my virginity tonight, and what he did to me. But it’s like claiming not to like horror movies, even as you snuggle into the couch with wide, eager eyes, watching the opening credits roll with a fistful of popcorn.
The part of me that wants to be angry is rational, day-to-day survival Evie. Don’t walk into traffic. Don’t run with scissors.
Don’t lose your virginity to a masked psychopath in a graveyard.
But a different part of me is in the driver’s seat right now. The part that thrills at the scary movie, or shrieks on the rollercoaster.
It’s the part of me that dances, and craves the rush that only a defiance of physical limitations and gravity can bring.
Finally I force myself to open my eyes and look at my reflection again.
I still look exhausted beyond belief. Still look like I might fall over at any moment. Still look like anassault victim, with bruises and scrapes and blood and cum all over my naked body.
I also look like I just gotravaged.
No, not ravaged. Not “bedded”, either, or “swept off my feet”, or any other stupid, G-rated, princess-coded euphemism.
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
I look like I just gotfucked.
Like a cheap whore.
Like a little cock slut.
And I look likeI lovedevery second of it.
I swallow heavily as the heat in my face spreads down my neck, teases over my battered, bruised skin and creeps over my breasts. My sore nipples tighten to aching points, and a fluttering sensation ripples through my belly before heat pools slickly between my thighs.
You just got fucked.
Such a slut.
A little whimper tumbles from my throat, and before I know it, I slide my hand to my breast. I cup it, feeling the sore nipple stiffen against my palm before I twist my hand and pinch the throbbing bud between my thumb and finger.
Pain and pleasure zap like an electric current through my core. I do it again, and a broken, gasped cry escapes my lips.
It’s the first few pebbles of an avalanche. Once they start to tumble, the whole mountain comes crashing down.
