33. Chapter Thirty-Three - Wrong Choices #3
The door shut behind her with a final, hollow sound, sealing the room in a darkness thicker than shadow.
The world shifted, or maybe I did. Everything blurred together: the bass pounding faintly below, the pressure building behind my eyes, the shapes of three boys stepping closer.
I recognized them from the couch, their laughter gone now, replaced with something tense and expectant that made bile rise in my throat.
My breath stuttered. I tried to speak, but my mouth felt packed with cotton. “Wait,” I rasped, my voice unraveling. “You drugged—”
“Shh,” the blonde cut in smoothly, his hands already at his belt, unclipping it with slow, taunting precision. “Cute dress. Easy access.”
He reached for me, and hands were suddenly on my legs, forcing them apart.
Terror ripped through me in a sharp, electric rush that left me shaking inside, and I swung out with everything I had left.
My arms flailed weakly against his wrists, desperate to make my body scream "no" even when the words were stuck and coming too slowly to matter.
“No, stop. I’m not—please, get off me!”
My arms were seized and pinned above my head by the others, their grips unyielding. I thrashed, twisted, and fought, but it felt like screaming underwater. Every movement lagged, my body trapped in a world that had moved on without me. Heat climbed my throat, sharp and choking, born of pure fear.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “I don’t consent! I said no!”
The blonde leaned in, smirking as his fingers dug into my cheek, forcing my head still. “No one’s coming, love,” he muttered. “Stop the act. A slag like you, this is exactly what you were after.”
His words sliced deep. My chest caved in on itself. I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t move. I could only think, distantly and frantically, where was Culver? I didn’t care if he was fucking every other girl on the planet; I just wanted him.
He shoved my face into the mattress with careless force, like I was nothing more than something in the way.
The fabric scraped against my cheek roughly, and my vision blurred as tears burned hot behind my eyes.
Between the drugged haze and the sudden pressure, the world tipped sideways, colors bleeding together into something nauseating and unreal.
I couldn’t tell which way was up anymore, only that the mattress dipped behind me as his weight shifted.
He was climbing on. Panic thundered through my chest so hard it hurt.
This was it. The thought arrived fully formed and merciless. I was about to be raped.
My body refused me completely. I tried to push up, to curl away, to find some last scrap of leverage, but my limbs dragged like they were moving through wet cement.
My skin crawled as his hands slid along me, slow and possessive, touching me like he already owned what he was taking.
I bit down hard on my lip until I tasted blood, desperate for anything sharp enough to cut through the fog.
I needed Culver.
I should’ve asked about the woman before reacting. Maybe there really had been an answer, and I hadn’t hesitated to fling myself toward Carter without thinking about the consequences. And now I was paying for it.
His body pressed closer, heat and weight trapping me against the bed. My chest heaved as I sobbed, the sound torn and ugly, stripped of pride or composure. “No,” I cried, my voice breaking apart. “No, I don’t want this. If—if you don’t stop, you’ll die. He’ll kill you.”
The words spilled out of me, frantic and raw. “Culver will kill you,” I sobbed. “He’ll kill you and won’t leave a piece left!”
It was a lie, but I wanted it to be the truth.
The boy above me laughed, a low, guttural sound that made my stomach flip. “No one’s coming, slut,” he muttered, his breath hot and foul against my neck. Something hard nudged against my thigh, and my entire body recoiled.
I broke completely then, curling inward as much as my body would allow, even as rough hands forced me flat again. “Please,” I begged, my voice splintering beneath the weight of it all. “Please don’t. Please—Culver. Culver, help me.”
His name left my mouth like a prayer, torn from the deepest part of me, instinctive and desperate.
“Dumb bitch,” the blonde snarled.
His hand closed around my throat.
The pressure was sudden and absolute. My breath cut off in a sharp, terrifying snap.
I gasped reflexively, but nothing came. My lungs burned, screaming for air as black crept in at the edges of my vision.
I clawed weakly at the hands pinning me down, nails scraping uselessly against skin and fabric, my body thrashing on instinct alone.
I couldn’t scream, and I couldn’t speak. Thought itself fractured, splintering into flashes of fear and pain and his name echoing too softly to hear.
The room faded, sound warping and stretching as darkness rolled in like a tide I couldn’t fight.
My last conscious thought, clung to like a lifeline even as everything slipped away, was his name.
Culver.