But something is off. Even as I’m choking the life out of him, he’s still gripping my ass and grinding himself against me.
It’s strange as fuck.
“I’m trying to kill you, asshole. Why is your dick hard?”
Someone clears their throat.
Archer is leaning against the bedroom doorframe, completely unfazed by the sight of me trying to choke out his buddy. He looks at us with the same mild expression you’d give someone who’d burnt the toast.
“Elias there loves to be asphyxiated. Makes him all hard. Keep going, and he’ll come on your leg.”
I look down at Elias. He’s turning blue, but he’s still grinning, and for emphasis, he grinds himself against me one more time. I can feel the impressive length and heat of him through his pants.
I scatter away from him so fast I nearly trip over my chain.
Elias finally takes a breath, bent double, gasping. Then he looks up at me with that stupid grin.
“Fuck, that was hot,” he wheezes.
I stare at him. I stare at Archer. I stare back at Elias.
“You’re all fucking insane,” I say, and slam the bathroom door. It bounces open again because of the chain, and I howl in frustration.
Archer’s face appears in the gap. He holds up a finger as if he’s about to say something, sees my expression, and wisely walks away.
I turn the shower on as hot as it will go. Steam billows, fogging the mirror. I step under the spray, and the heat sears my skin.
But god, it feels good.
Three years of cold creek baths. Three years of never being truly clean. I tilt my head back and let the water pour over my hair, my face, into my mouth. I swallow it down, greedy for it, letting the heat soak into muscles that haven’t been properly warm in longer than I can remember.
The chain clanks against the side of the tub when I reach for the soap—a sharp, metallic reminder of where I am and why.
“Fucking bastards!” I scrub at my skin, hard, determined to wash away every last trace of dirt and grime. The soap is luxurious and smells like peaches. Part of me wants to hate it. The rest of me groans because it feels so good to be clean.
“You pricks can’t keep me here forever, even if you have soap that smells like peaches!” I shout.
I roughly comb my fingers through my hair, trying to work the tangles out. My fingers catch and snag, and the hair pulls sharply at my scalp.
And then it hits me.
All of it. The full weight of everything that’s happened, everything I’ve been holding back for three years, everything I’ve lost. It falls on me all at once, and my knees buckle.
I blame the soap.
I crumple to the bottom of the tub, arms wrapped around myself, water pounding against my back. The tears come before I can stop them. Not gentle, quiet tears. These are ugly. Wrenching. The kind that comes from somewhere deep and broken, the kind I haven’t let out in years. I don’t even care that they can all hear me. It’s been building up so long that holding it back is impossible.
I cry for Sophie.
For the girl I used to be before everything went wrong.
For three years of cold and hunger and loneliness.
For every night I slept on the ground and told myself it was enough to be free.
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
The water runs cold, and the shock of it snaps me out of it. I snarl, twisting the taps off, and haul myself upright. The chain clanks against the porcelain. I grab a towel, soft and fluffy and infuriating, and dry myself roughly. Refusing to enjoy it even though my skin has never felt anything this soft.