Please, I beg internally as hot tears stain my cheeks. Let it be Lev who did it. I just want it to be Lev.
A hiccup sends me stumbling from the bed. I manage to make it to the bathroom before the first sob cracks from my throat. I slap my hand over my mouth, hoping the boys are far enough away that they can’t hear me crying. This is the sound of a wounded animal. I’m the little rabbit they wanted all along, and they punctured me just as intended.
And now that I’m marked, I’ll never get away.
I should have made a choice, I think grimly while flipping the knob for the shower. Water shudders from the spout, white noise slowly filling the bathroom. It was the only power I had, and I didn’t even use it. What the fuck was I thinking?
Stepping beneath the warm stream sends a ripple through my body. Comfort mingles with horrified guilt while shame lingers in the background. The more I think about what happened, the worse I feel, my desperation growing as I wash my body. I scrub my scalp, scrape my skin with a cloth, and turn the water so hot that my skin turns pink.
Can’t drink, can’t get high, can’t take pills—well, I’ll do the next best fucking thing. I’ll lock every good thing about me up into a box and throw away the key. I’ll become so cold that whenever those boys touch me, my skin will feel like ice.
When I’ve rinsed the last of the fluids away, I turn off the faucet and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel on the way back to the bedroom. I pat my skin dry meticulously, not missing an inch of my flesh with the towel. I wrap my hair and then pull on my clothes, approaching the bed with a critical gaze.
I cross my arms over my chest and whisper, “If I just fucked a virgin, where would I put the sheets?”
Searching doesn’t take long. Once the soiled sheets are located, I summon one of the staff and instruct her to wrap the sheets in a plastic trash bag to be delivered immediately to Ophelia Moretti. And when she asks who should be listed as the sender, I say my name firmly, loudly, and proudly.
Once the maid is out of sight, I consider the plan complete. I wander to the window and peer into the inky darkness, watching the lamps in the garden blink on one by one. Though the sun just set, it feels like it’s been night for many hours now, the events leading to this moment fogging my mind. I’m not innocent anymore. I’m no longer pure.
I’m just a toy—used, soiled, and battered.