At first, I didn’t believe him.
My mind reached for the easiest explanation—he had some kind of ulterior motive, whatever it might be. He wanted to keep the fantasy intact. He wanted to protect my pride. He wanted to keep me wanting him.
Then the second explanation slammed into me like a door kicked in. He was telling the truth.
And if he was telling the truth…then the guy who fucked me in the bathroom wasn’t him.
My stomach turns.
I curl onto my side, shrinking without meaning to. Tightening. Constricting. Folding in on myself until I’m nothing but angry introspection and too much skin.
Okay. So. It wasn’t him.
Which means I let a stranger put his hands on me in the dark, and I didn’t even know. Not until right now, when the truth I conveniently ignored last night comes barreling forward to demand legitimacy.
For a split second, I hate myself for the way my body enjoyed it—like it was some kind of twisted betrayal. I should’ve fought harder instead of swooning like the whole setup was a scene in some sexy dark romance novel.
I should’ve screamed. Kicked. Scratched.
It was my mind’s job to be smarter than my body, and it failed. They both failed.
I hate the stranger more than I hate myself, though, and I hate the truth most of all. The truth is clean. Clinical. It doesn’t care what I deserve.
A stranger controlled the room, the light, the lock.
Me.
And I let him. Worse than that…I lived…I breathed…every second of what he did to me.
My hand goes to my wrist. The three rubber bands are still there. I snap them hard enough to sting.
Snap.
Snap.
A final, violent snap—punishment.Reset.
I refuse to be a victim. Not again. Not when I know better. Not when I’ve come this far. Not when I didn’t learn anything the first time other than how to survive.
That’s why I’m here now. I have to make the past…my survivorship…meansomething.
I need revenge.
The sting clears my head. It doesn’t erase the wrongness, but it gives it edges. Something I can hold.
When I open my eyes again, everything is clearer. I can see the room. See myself. And I see the slip of paper on the nightstand.
Shiloh’s phone number sits there like a dare.
You won’t call, but I’ll leave this anyway.
My mouth goes sour. I push up, locked in a staring contest with the paper and not sure which one of us is winning.
He’s right; I’m not going to call. I got everything I needed last night, and I don’t need him. I don’t need anybody.
My body disagrees immediately, traitorous and loud. My breasts tighten with the memory of his hands. The drag of his calluses against my flesh. The scrape of his tongue. The heat. The way his mouth found my throat. The way his cock filled me like it had always belonged there.
Anger burns brighter than the instant lust, scalding the inside of my skull alongside its sibling, shame. I squeeze my fists against the rioting emotions.
