Because he doesn’t fucking care.
“Next morning, a few fragments come back to you. Perhaps even physical reminders. Not just of the violation…but the pleasure.”
I blink, and in the moment of darkness behind my eyelids I hear him grunt as he thrusts into me…and I hear myself moan.
Not in pain…in ecstasy.
But that’s not what happened.
I didn’t enjoy it.
I wanted him to stop.
…Right?
“Thing is,” Bastian says, turning on his heel and pacing back the way he came, “physiological arousal can occur during any kind of contact, consenting or otherwise. Pleasurable…orotherwise. Just another spectacular way our bodies like to fuck with our minds.”
There’s a sharp edge to his words, and when he turns back to the class, back to me, his brown eyes are deeply shadowed as he frowns.
He circles the word VICTIM on the board.
“Put yourself in their shoes for a moment,” he says, circling the word over, and over, and over again. “Imagine the profound confusion. Theshame. The spiral of thoughts…”
He tosses the chalk back into the ridge beneath the board.
“If my body responded, then I wanted it. I was sending mixed signals, so of coursethey didn’t stop. They’re myfriend. My parent. My pastor. They wouldn’t dothatto me, would they?”
I feel Bastian’s hands on my thighs, wrenching them open, the pressure of his fingertips digging into my soft flesh, slipping inside me?—
...you’re lying with your mouth and begging with your cunt…
The memory hits so hard, I can’t breathe.
My chest constricts, each breath shallower than the last. Sweat beads on my forehead, the room spinning around me.
Bitter saliva floods my mouth, and it feels like the ground opens up beneath me, that I’m seconds away from plummeting down into the depths of hell.
“Stockholm Syndrome is perhaps the most widely recognized example of trauma bonding,” Bastian is saying, his voice cutting in and out like a badly tuned radio.
He’s talking about me. About us. Here, in front of everyone.
The fucking arrogance.
The lecture hall door slams open. I rip my eyes away, staring at Kai as he stalks over the linoleum toward Bastian. There’s a stack of papers in his hand, but he holds it like an afterthought.
He ignores Bastian, scanning the students with narrowed eyes, only stopping when he spots?—
—me.
The moment he sees me, his gaze locks on and doesn’t look away until he’s at his desk on the podium. Even then, it’s only to glance toward Bastian as he holds out the stack of pages.
“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Jordan,” I hear Bastian say.
Kai answers without taking his eyes off me. “You said you wanted these before end of?—”
“Yes, thank you.” Bastian waves a hand at the desk, and Kai stiffens before turning to sprawl in the chair. “Now, as I was saying?—”
“Hey, are you okay?”
