14

DAHLIA Kane has disappeared. And with that, the camera stops blinking red. Soon after he left, he returned and threw a coat at my head—black leather with brass buttons like the ones the guards were wearing outside. Then he vanished into the dark without looking twice in my direction, as if I’d disgusted him. After he fucked me. After he used me for his pleasure. That thought is more humiliating than the fact that I had the roughest sex of my life on camera. And I came so hard, I squirted. I need therapy. If only I could afford it. My movements are stiff and automatic as I swipe my torn shirt over my face, the touch of it scraping against my skin like sandpaper. I find the cleanest shred and drag it between my legs. The bruises he left on my pelvis and ass throb, radiating heat. Sharp, stinging pain lances through me with every small shift. The feeling of him inside me is raw, alive, like my body has been ripped open and filled with tiny, invisible shards of him. My strained muscles pro