Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Her eyes soften when I pull her away from the door, and I hate it.
Instead of warning her again, I open the door and walk out, nearly running into another girl out in the hall as I’m tucking my dick away.
I know I’m the one who sought her out, but I’ll be damned if I do it again.
Alani Warren is on her own from now on.
Chapter 13
Alani
I shouldn’t be stunned that he just fucked me and walked away. What did I expect the man to do? Stay and fucking cuddle? Any unmet expectations are my own fault, but that doesn’t stop that voice in my head that continues to tell me I’m unworthy, that Donavan would stick around for any other woman but me.
I strip out of my clothes and pull on a robe before making sure I have everything in my shower caddy that I’ll need, before leaving my room.
I hold my head high despite my quivering chin. I have no business feeling any sort of way other than satisfied because he gave me exactly what I was craving. I wanted the threat of danger. I wanted to feel used. He feeds that part of me I didn’t know I had until the first night I met him. I knew I was searching for something, that every other man I met before him lacked in giving me.
I take a shuddering breath as I shove open the heavy door to the shower room, doing my best not to give the rest of our conversation any thought. But it’s impossible not to think about what he said.
A man, nothing more than a dark shadow and feet pounding on concrete, chased me back to my dorm room last night. I feel stupid now for standing outside and giving who I thought was Donavan the chance to catch me.
A shiver of terror travels down my spine at just how dangerous it was. I don’t think he was lying about it not being him. Maybe I could convince myself that it was probably some stupid jock fucking around if I didn’t know what happened to Ayla and another girl right in front of my dorm building eight months ago.
Cold chills cover my body as I step closer to the long mirror. Whatever buzz I had from the party was fucked out of me, and my reflection tells me that I was thoroughly used tonight in the best way.
“Umm…”
I snap my eyes to another girl in the room.
She looks a little lost, but instead of dropping her eyes, she continues to look at me.
“Yes?” I ask, shrugging out of my robe because I’ve found that the fastest way to get some privacy in the fucking shower room is to get naked. For some reason, exposed skin makes people uncomfortable.
I’ve seen this girl in passing, but I don’t know her at all.
“I heard what happened in your room.”
“Heard or were listening like a pervert?” I ask, folding my robe before shoving it into a cubby.
She points at me before speaking again. “I wanted to ask if you need help. Do you want me to call someone?”
I look down, following the direction of her finger and notice the purple bruises already forming on my hips.
I don’t know what enrages me more—the fact that she thinks I might not have enjoyed what happened or the fact that she heard what was going on, suspected I was in trouble, but waited until he left to say something. I was in my room for ten fucking minutes after Donavan left before coming down here.
“Are you fucking serious?”
She takes a step back, her throat working on a swallow. I don’t want to get the man in trouble. What happened between us was consensual. Fuck, how many people saw Ayla or that other girl taken and didn’t say shit?
I’d much rather tell the police I’m fine than risk someone being hurt and no one speaking up about it.
“Get the fuck out of my face,” I snap, her feet moving immediately toward the door. “And the next time you think someone is being hurt, go get fucking help.”
She scurries away.
I hate how fast people are to show up after tragedy strikes, so fucking willing to offer a helping hand, but they’re blind to what’s going on in the moment. Don’t even get me started on the motherfuckers who are quick to jump on social media, offering fucking thoughts and prayers after someone has been victimized, like it makes any goddamned difference.
I’m simmering with rage during my entire shower, and it makes me want to find that girl and punch her in the fucking throat. I walked in here on a high I’ll never be able to duplicate, and she fucking ruined it.
As I scrub at my skin, pressing a little harder than necessary into the bruises on my hips, I consider that maybe he’ll come around more often now that he knows someone else was after me. I should be scared. It should make me want to stay inside and cower in fear, but it only thrills me to think about the next time I’m out at night and the possibility that he could just pop up again.