"Let's get a drink," Sophia laughed, steering me toward a sunken lounge area. She pushed me down onto a low, velvet couch that felt damp through the silk of my dress.
"You know I don't drink…"
"Who cares? You're drinking tonight." Her voice lost its playful edge. It was an order. Before I could protest, she was back, two dark, unlabeled bottles in hand.
She wedged one between her knees, popped the cork with a dull thwump, and thrust it toward me. Liquid sloshed over the rim, cold against my knuckles. "Here. Consider it part of your farewell package."
She tipped her bottle back, drinking deep, her body already swaying to the sick, rhythmic throb of the music.
I didn't want this. The drink smelled like chemical cherries and regret. But the room… the bodies moving, merging, the raw, exposed hunger of it all… it was seeping into me, stirring a low, unwelcome heat deep in my core. A desperate, shameful want.
I pinched my nose, closed my eyes, and drank.
It was bitter. Metallic. Like swallowing punishment.
"Yeah, that's my girl," Sophia slurred, her hand landing heavily on my shoulder.
I didn't want to be her girl. I didn't want to be in this room, in this skin, in this life. If the alcohol could blur the edges, could sink this whole wretched circus into a haze, then let it. It was the only exit door I could see.
The world swam in a nauseating, warm blur. I could barely make out Sophia's shape beside me.
"Why did I come here?" I slurred, my own voice thick in my ears. My head was a dying star, throbbing with its own dark heat.
"I'm gonna find a guy," she announced, her words slick and slow. "Someone to fuck me so hard. My pussy is aching. You wanna follow? We could do three… or four…" She grinned, a predatory flash in the gloom.
"No… I can't. My legs… they're made of stone." I let out a choked laugh, trying and failing to lift my knee. It was true; a leaden weight had settled into my bones.
"I know you want it," she purred, leaning close, her breath sour with alcohol. "I saw you watching me and James. You need to get Bran out of your head, Camilla. He's dead. Four years dead."
Even through the thick syrup of the drink, the words were a scalpel.
Bran took everything. My virginity, my heart, my peace. He even sold my future to a monster. But that didn't mean my body was a vacant house, ready for any stranger to claim.
I can't. Not again.
"No. Go. I'll stay… I love this couch." I forced another laugh, a brittle sound.
She shrugged, a blur of motion, and was gone. Swallowed by the pulsating dark.
I was alone.
Drunk, defenseless, in a den of hungry strangers. The music pounded like a failing heart. The shadows on the walls seemed to lean closer.
"There you are, beauty. I've been looking all over for you."
The voice cut through the muffled bass. I forced my eyes to focus. It was him—the guard. His silhouette loomed over the couch, backlit by the hellish red glow.
My head throbbed with every pulse of the music. At least I could see him. That felt like a small, stupid victory.
The words that left my mouth felt loose and slippery, like fish escaping a net. "Mmm… think I should… go home."
"Home?" He crouched down, his face level with mine. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You look like the kind of woman who has someone waiting."
A wave of drunken, brutal honesty washed over me. "No one… waits. Parents, dead. Husband, dead." I let out a bitter, airy sound that was supposed to be a laugh. "No one gives a damn."
He leaned closer. His cologne was cheap and sharp, cutting through the smell of sweat and alcohol. "I could," he said, his voice a low promise that felt like a threat.
His lips crashed onto mine—a possessive, crushing press. I summoned a surge of adrenaline and shoved against his chest. "Stop!"
He barely budged. "I would make you feel like heaven," he murmured, his calloused hand cupping my jaw, thumb tracing my bottom lip. "You're fucking beautiful."
"Let me be!" I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the thrumming bass and moans around us.
"There's no running away, little angel." His grip tightened. "It's me and you now." He kissed me again, harder, his mouth moving with a horrifying, practiced precision, sucking the breath from my lungs.
Rage cut through the drunken haze. "You fool!" My hand flew up, cracking across his cheek with a sharp, startling slap.
I staggered back, using the momentum to lurch to my feet. The room tilted violently.
He just smiled, rubbing his jaw, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance I'd fought for.
"There's no escape."
Panic, sharp and sobering, sliced through the drunken fog. He wasn't just harassing me; he was hunting.
I had to run. Yes, I was drunk, but he fucking wanted to rape me.
His eyes had been on me all night, stripping me bare. When his hand, slick with condensation from his beer bottle, brushed the small of my back and lingered, it wasn't an accident. It was a claim. I'd jerked away, mumbling an excuse, and stumbled toward the hallway, the bass of the music thumping in my chest like a panicked heartbeat.
I pushed open a door, any door, and fell into the welcoming quiet and darkness of a basement storage room. The door hissed shut behind me, muffling the party into a distant throb. My breath came in ragged pants. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with toilet paper and spare lightbulbs. I was safe. I leaned against a cold concrete wall, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to steady the spinning room.
Click.
The soft sound of the door closing properly. I hadn't pulled it shut. My eyes flew open.
He stood there, silhouetted against the thin strip of light from under the door. He'd found me. He moved slowly, deliberately, cutting off my only escape. The scent of beer and cheap aftershave filled the small space.
"Please," I whispered, the word trembling in the dark. "Please don't touch me." The tears came then, hot and uncontrollable, streaming down my face.
He took another step, his form becoming clearer. He wasn't smiling. His expression was one of flat, simple determination.
"No," he said, his voice low and unnervingly calm. "I'm not going to touch you."
A flicker of insane, desperate hope sparked in my chest.
Then he undid his belt buckle. The metallic clink was a gunshot in the silence.
"I want to fuck you."
He took the final step, and I was trapped between his body and the cold wall. He brought his face close to mine. His breath was sour.
"I swear," he whispered, his hand coming up to grip my jaw, not hard, but with an inescapable firmness. "I'll make it nice."
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To be continued...