It was Dray who fucked me.
And I welcomed him.
At first.
But in his bed… I don’t know.
It’s hazy after the corridor, and if I try to think about it, I get an uneasy feeling in my gut.
Maybe that’s the hangover.
I stagger into the door, like I’m still drunk on cheap booze—and the door should steady me, but just as I try to right myself, it whips open from the other side, and I tumble into a hard chest.
“Oh, what the fuck,” the guttural morning voice is instantly recognisable.
I know it’s my brother before I step back and face him.
But he only realises it’s me once he’s wiped away the spills of hot coffee from his t-shirt, lifted his gaze—and frozen.
He stares at me with wild eyes.
My mouth wobbles.
Oliver’s lashes flutter for a beat.
Tears stream down my cheeks.
“What the fuck—”
I shove by him and race down the stairs as quick as my uneasy legs can carry me.
The early morning hour means the grand parlour is only dotted with students, and I rush by them to the girls’ dorms.
I shoulder past a familiar faced girl on my way, her clothes crumpled, and her gaze spinning around to watch me as I race to the bathroom.
If I cared for anything outside of my own world collapsing around me, or the fact that my breaths are ragged and so unfulfilled that I am lightheaded, then maybe I would give a shit about the crumpled dress I abandoned somewhere on the bathroom tiles, or that the water to hiss out of the showerhead is cold for the first minute, or that I don’t have a change of clothes or a towel, or even that I’m still in Dray’s t-shirt and boxers.
Maybe I would care that I throw myself into the tiled wall with a harrowed cry, hard enough to knock my head.
But I don’t care.
And that hollow shout follows me as I sink down to the shower floor.
The only thing I care about right now is that it was Dray.
It was Dray, it was Dray,it was Dray.
It flashes in my mind.
His hand on my neck, his thrusts pushing through the dark, my nails ripping at his forearm.
The cry twists into a scream.
21
The water rains down on me and washes away the tears on my face.
I’m a puppet whose strings were cut, slumped and sagged against the tiled wall, my legs sprawled over the porcelain floor.
