How could my body betray me so completely?
I think about Dad, wherever he is.
Does he even know what’s happening to me?
Is he alive?
Luca and Danny say he’s fine, but I have no proof, no way to verify anything.
For all I know, my father died after they dragged him out of the warehouse and I’m being held here for nothing. And last night, while he might be suffering or dead, I was in Luca’s arms, kissing him back, challenging him to take more.
The guilt is suffocating.
I force myself up from the floor and into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand it.
I scrub my skin until it’s red and raw, trying to wash away the memory of Luca’s hands on me, his mouth on mine, the way his hips felt as they slammed into me.
But no amount of soap can erase what happened and no amount of scalding water can burn away the shame.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel with my skin pink and stinging, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look like a fucking disaster.
My eyes are swollen from crying, my hair tangled and dripping, and bruises bloom on my hips where Luca’s fingers gripped too hard.
Even my throat has marks on it.
Evidence of my complete moral failure written across my body.
I can’t look at myself any longer.
Dropping my towel, I head into the closet to pick out something to wear.
I dress in the plainest clothes I can find—jeans and a black turtleneck—and pull my wet hair back into a severe ponytail.
I don’t want anyone to notice me today.
I just want to be invisible.
My stomach twists uncomfortably as my eyes scan my bedroom before landing on my bed.
Memories of last night flood me.
Me falling onto the bed with Luca’s large body covering mine.
The way his mouth felt against my mouth—the warmth of his tongue, the smell of his cologne.
I can’t breathe.
Rushing over to the bed, I seize the sheets and rip them off the bed, letting them fall to the floor.
If I could burn this stupid fucking bed and the wall next to it, I would.
Knock knock.
Whirling around, I hear the lock click and a young maid I don’t recognize enters.
She’s in her early twenties with blonde hair pulled back in a low bun.
She looks at my stripped bed and me, breathing heavily, and her eyes widen nervously.
