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"You don’t want me?" she asked, sliding her hand to my stomach and down towards my cock. I pulled away from her, stepping back into the doorway.
"Selina, look at the state you’re in," I told her. "I’m not going to lay a finger on you when you’re like this, you understand?"
The words came out harsher than I had intended, and, for a moment, she just stood there, clearly too stunned to say anything. And then, to my horror, her face crumpled, and tears began to fall down her cheeks. She crumpled down onto the floor, wrapping her arms around herself, and I dropped down beside her.
"I’m sorry," I murmured to her. "I shouldn’t have been so harsh. I was just—"
"No," she gasped, inhaling a deep breath. "I just … I can’t …"
She dissolved into sobs again. I carefully put my arms around her, looping them around her shoulders and holding her close to me. She leaned into my shoulder, pressing herself against me as though she was holding on for dear life. Her shoulders were shaking, her whole body wracked with tension. I hated seeing her like this, but I knew how easy it was to slip back into bad old habits when you were high or drunk. All the emotions that you’d been trying to numb, they could come back and hit you at ten times the rate you were ready for—and that feeling was the worst thing in the fucking world.
"Hey, hey, it’s okay," I murmured to her, rubbing the small of her back slowly, trying to guide her back down to coherence again. I wished I had kept a better eye on her today; I should have watched her more carefully, made sure she wasn’t getting up to anything she shouldn’t have been, but I had wanted to give her space. The last thing I had needed was her getting triggered by feeling like I was trying to control her, and I knew how easy it would have been for that to happen.
"It’s not," she blurted out, looking up at me, face twisted into a mask of sadness. "I … I shouldn’t have brought alcohol in here. I’m sorry. I convinced one of the guards to get it for me; please don’t get him into trouble …"
"I won’t," I replied, though I made a mental note to give everyone on staff a stern talking to—make sure they were well-aware that they weren’t to get her anything that might get her out of her mind. She needed to stay sober, or else she was going to fall down the same rabbit hole that had taken her in the first place.
"I can’t remember the last time someone turned me down," she told me, her lip shaking as she gazed at me. I could tell she was hurt, but I needed her to understand that I had my reasons.
"It’s not because you’re not beautiful, Selina," I assured her. "It’s not because I don’t want you—"
"Then what?" she demanded, her voice taking on that sharp edge that it sometimes did with me, when the shame was getting the better of her, when she couldn’t live with what had happened and everything she had done.
"Because I’m not going to have sex with you when you’re too drunk to walk," I told her firmly. "I don’t care how much I like you. You’re out of it. It’s not right."
She paused for a moment, something seemingly clicking inside of her; she drew in a long, shaky breath, and then let it out again.
"That night I slept with you for the first time," she muttered. "That was … That was the first time I’ve had sex sober. Ever."
A flood of rage and sadness hit my system at the sound of those words. Those fuckers, those monsters who had used her, when they must have known the state she was in. Did they have any shame for how they had treated her? Did they look at her, drunk or high out of her mind, and think she was capable of consenting? Did they see the cash they left for her as an apology for using her body when she couldn’t possibly fight it?
"I’m sorry," I told her. It wasn’t enough, not even close to enough, to make up for the hell she had been through, but it was the best I had right now. I couldn’t sit there in silence. I needed her to know that I knew how fucked-up it was; that she should never have been through that in the first place.
"I deserved it," she whispered, and I clasped her face in my hands, bringing her eyes up to meet mine.
"No, you didn’t," I told her, through gritted teeth. "You didn’t deserve that. Nobody does. I don’t give a fuck who you are, what you’ve done, what shit you put in your body—nobody should be taking advantage of that. Nobody."
She gazed at me for a long, silent moment. I knew this must have been a lot for her to take in. Not just hearing me say this, but knowing, realizing for the first time, the true extent of how she had been abused. Not just by Stefano, but by all those men—all those evil bastards who had harmed her over the years. They couldn’t have been ignorant to the fact that she was using; she clearly didn’t make much of an effort to hide it. But they had fucked her anyway, raped her. Because they didn’t see her as human.
When they were the ones who had lost all their humanity.
She wrapped her arms around me and just clung to me, and I squeezed her close, stroking her hair until I felt some of her sobs start to subside. I knew it was going to be a long time before she could truly work through the reality of what all of this meant, but at least she could start now. At least she could begin to see it clearly, see it for what it was. None of this had happened because she was weak; it had happened because there were too many men out there in the world who were willing to look at a woman in her position and see her as an opportunity, not as a victim.
"Come on," I murmured after a few minutes, slowly guiding her to her feet and to the edge of the bed. "You sit. I’m going to get you a glass of water."
She nodded, and I discreetly headed to the nightstand and grabbed the scotch from where it had been left. I stared down at the amber liquid still swilling inside of it, and, for a split second, I thought about tossing it back, but I pushed that instinct down, shoving it away before it could take hold of me. No. No fucking way. I wasn’t going to let my shit get in the way of what she needed right now, which was clearly someone to take care of her.
I headed to the kitchen, poured out the scotch, and watched as it tumbled down the drain. I had done the same thing to my last bottle, before I had gotten sober—some kind of ceremonial thing, a chance for me to get rid of everything once and for all. I wasn’t sure if she was truly ready to be sober yet, but I hoped she was at least willing to give it a try.
Pouring her a glass of ice water, I tried to stem my anger at the guard who had gotten her the booze. I doubted he had meant anything by it, probably hadn’t been thinking. When she turned her gaze on you, it was hard as hell to turn her down, and I was as aware of that as anyone. A part of me wanted to kick him to the curb for what he had done, but I knew it would just give her more to feel guilty about.
I made my way back to the bedroom, where she was sitting on the bed, staring at the floor. She seemed to have stopped crying by now, but I could still see the pain written all over her face.
"Here," I murmured to her as I held out the glass. She jumped when she heard my voice, like she had only just noticed I was in the room.
"Thanks," she muttered, and she took it from me, sipping on it slowly. I planted myself beside her, not touching her, just wanting her to know that I wasn’t going anywhere. I knew how much she was struggling, and I wished there was more I could do to make it easier for her.
"Is there anything else you need?” I asked her. She managed to offer me a wry smile.
