Something wakes me up out of a dead sleep. Even though the alcohol still buzzes through my system, and it delays my movements. And my thoughts.
Before my eyes can open, a weight drops down on my hips. I jerk, the reflex tensing my muscles hard, but my arms don’t move.
And when my eyes open, I can’t see. I open my mouth to scream, and a hand slams over my lips. Fear bursts through me, and I thrash before I fully register what’s happening. Something bites into my wrists, keeping them stretched up over my head. A soft blindfold covers my eyes.
And the weight on my hips keeps me immobilized.
A soft whimper escapes me, and then I feel it.
A hand traces over my collarbone and dips down between my breasts.
Bare.
I’m naked.
My breathing comes faster, my nostrils flaring. His hand is still against my lips, preventing me from begging for him to stop. Until he pulls it away for the briefest moment.
Immediately, something is shoved between my teeth. The hand covers my lips again, and the fabric in my mouth muffles any noise I hope to make. The other hand is still trailing across my chest, avoiding my breasts. Down my sternum, across my ribs. My stomach, the stretch marks, around my belly button.
It’s Steele.
I know it’s Steele.
But he doesn’t say anything, and I can’t.
Not when he forces my thighs apart and thrusts into me hard enough to make my back bow off the bed. The slide of him into me is an invasion I’m not prepared for—and one I can’t stop. No matter how hard I twist my body, he stays right there.
Holy shit. I groan through the gag.
He fucks me hard, gripping the back of my thigh with one hand and keeping his other over my mouth. He pushes my face to the side, into my pillow. I struggle to breathe evenly through my nose, half worried that he’s going to pinch off that airway, too. It makes me wonder if every finger is going to leave a bruise on my skin.
I yank my hands, trying to get my wrists free from the bindings over my head. He’s invading my senses, and I hate the hold he has on my face. I hate that he’s silent. He’s taking his own pleasure and ignoring mine.
He slams fully inside me and goes still, his low grunt the only sound he makes as he comes inside me. I feel the wetness immediately in his absence, because he doesn’t linger. Doesn’t put any of his weight on me except where his hands touched me, and his hips joining with mine.
Something light hits my stomach after he climbs off the bed. I sense his stare like an ice pick. My chest is heaving, my nerves shredded.
My door clicks shut, and I lie on my bed in complete silence for too many seconds. He’s gone. And judging from the pervading silence, he’s not coming back.
I squeeze my thighs together, grateful for the lack of audience. Tears burn my eyes behind the cloth, but I refuse to let them fall—or to let out the sob that’s climbing in my chest.
It brings back increasingly volatile memories. The silence, being naked and unable to move. My mind replays my trauma behind my eyelids, until it’s hard to breathe. There’s a weight on my chest, crushing me, that doesn’t go away until I manage to get the blindfold off my eyes.
It takes a few seconds to blink in the darkness and let my eyes adjust, and I make out the belt that he used to secure my wrists to the headboard. I inhale slowly, counting in my head. I lick my lips, forcing my brain to acknowledge that I’m not gagged. My feet are free, too.
After a moment of staring at the belt, puzzling through it, I inch my body up the bed and use my teeth to release the buckle. The whole thing loosens, and I drop my head back to the pillow. Small miracles.
My inner thighs are wet, his cum seeping out and onto the sheets. He managed to strip me down completely—and immobilize me—while I was sleeping. I don’t remember falling asleep. I barely remember the walk home. There’s still a buzz of alcohol in my system, so maybe that aided him.
I climb off the bed, but I pause when I spot what he threw onto my stomach before leaving.
A folded fifty dollar bill.
I grab it. My eye twitches, and the rage I feel inside me is nearly unmatched.
I ball it up and chuck it toward my closet. The asshole wanted me to know that this was all him. The website, the stares that I’ll inevitably collect tomorrow. The hate from the female population.
At the bar tonight, I had more attention than I ever have—and sure, maybe it was partly due to the dress. But I’d bet more of it was from that shitty website and the rumor going around campus. That’s why I wore the dress. It’s better to confront rumors like these instead of shying away. And then Steele showed up…
The look on his face almost made it worth it.
But the guys’ attention made my skin crawl. The whole night was an act, and I hated every second. And then Steele paid for my drinks, the bartender confirmed it. Another act of possession? Or was he just trying to mess with me?
I tear everything off the bed, stripping it in the dark, and ball up the fitted sheet. Panic attack or not, I need the change. I need to remove all traces of Steele from my bed.
Are you on birth control? He asked me that at the party—and I never answered. And then he fucked me again, and he didn’t repeat his question.
I’m glad I am. That I get the shot every three months. The last one I got was just before I left for college. It comes with headaches around the time of the shot, and occasionally they reoccur—but it’s one of the easier forms of birth control, in my opinion. I don’t have to remember to take a pill every day. I don’t have to worry about a piece of plastic or copper in my uterus, or an implant in my arm. Then again, you’re only supposed to be on it short-term, and my time to be on it safely is running out. Another year or two, and I’ll have to figure something else out.
I remake my bed and check the clock. It’s three in the morning.
Witching hour again.
First, I need something to soak up the alcohol in my system. There are dinner rolls in the pantry. I pull out two and cut them in half, spreading butter on each piece. I eat quickly, eyes half closed. Once I’m done, I shower. As hot as I can manage. I scrub between my legs, whimpering when the soapy washcloth grazes my clit.
I do it again and brace my shoulder on the tiled wall, my foot on the edge of the tub. I fall into the feeling, my hips shifting. Practically humping my hand as I rub myself to orgasm.
It breaks over me, and I groan at the sensation.
I almost fall over.
When I’m as clean as I can get, I turn the light on in my room. The belt, sitting on my nightstand where I tossed it, catches my attention. I wrap it up, tucking the tail into itself. It rests in a ball on my palm. It’s definitely Steele’s belt, so… there’s that.
I climb into bed in the largest, softest t-shirt I own, and try to fall asleep.
The morning comes way too freaking fast.
I stagger to the bathroom and lift the large shirt to pee, and I almost choke on my gasp at the sight of my thigh.
Handprints. Bruises.
I thought his fingers might bruise, but my thigh has a perfect imprint of his hand wrapping around toward my ass. I rotate, trying to get a better look at it in the mirror. He must’ve dug his fingers in, because the spots where his fingertips rested on my skin are darker. Blue-black, where the rest of his hand is lighter.
Still totally obvious, though.
I shake it off and continue with my morning bathroom routine, emerging feeling somewhat better. Sleeping on wet hair was regrettable, and it takes a few tries to get it smooth. Thalia is in the kitchen when I emerge, already dressed and ready. She slides a giant mug of coffee my way, which I happily accept.
“Maybe not the best idea to get trashed on a school night,” she confesses. “Sorry.”
I sigh. “It’s okay.”
“What do you have planned for today?”
“Battle.” I say it simply, even though it’s anything but. I need to play my hand smarter, not louder. The idea of Steele getting the upper hand again makes me sick… even if some part of me last night was into it. Some little, fucked-up slice of my brain that is not making decisions around here.
Thalia eyes me. “Do you need help?”
“Nope. I’ll see you for lunch, though?”
“Of course.”
I smile and head back into my room. I turn in a slow circle. My gaze falls on the crumpled fifty, and I pick it up. Smooth it out. Put it in my pocket and smile to myself, because I get an idea that’s bound to drive Steele absolutely insane.
