Page 56 of I’m The Worst

He hasn’t looked at me since that night. Hasn’t spoken unless he has to. Hasn’t touched me. It’s like the thing that happened between us never existed.

Not that it means anything.

I’m a Servant. He’s Sovereign. That’s the vow I took. My body belongs to them. To use me for whatever sick, twisted pleasure they want.

The reminder has bile rising up my throat. I pick harder at the loose thread on my sleeve until the fabric starts to fray.

When I get home…it starts again. Different hands. Different men. Same body. I’ll have to smile and spread my legs for any Sovereign who wants me, because that’s what good little Servants do.

God, I feel sick.

I hug my knees tighter and press my forehead against them. The fire pops. Sparks drift up the chimney.

I thought being rescued would change something.

It didn’t.

I’m still property. Just trading one set of owners for another.

Before I was taken, I could almost pretend it was normal. Some nights, I even convinced myself I liked the attention, the luxury, the way powerful men looked at me like I was something special. I grew up knowing this was my role. Born into it. Trained for it.

But now?

After months of being raped until I stopped fighting, broken in ways I can’t come back from…the thought of going back to that life makes me want to vomit.

What kind of person gets taken, raped for months, and then crawls back, begging for the same cage? What kind of worthless slut actually misses the way a monster like Wolff looked at her when she was coming for him?

I wanted him to touch me.

I still do.

I dig my nails into my arms through the sleeves. Hard enough to leave marks. The pain helps for a second, then it doesn’t. Because the second Wolff drops me off in Chicago, my life goes back to what it was. Nights where I’ll lie there and let it happen because saying no isn’t an option. Because Servants can’t say no.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

I’m never getting out.

I’m never going to be anything but this. A hole for men to use.

The argument in the kitchen cuts off. Footsteps move toward the hall. I don’t lift my head. I can’t let him see my face right now—flushed, eyes burning with the kind of shame that doesn’t wash off.

He pauses in the doorway. I feel the weight of his stare on the back of my neck.

I don’t move.

I want him to touch me so badly that I ache for it.

I want to forget every fucking thought in my head.

I want him to ruin me so completely, so that when they try to use me again, there’s nothing left for them to take.

I want to disappear inside the way he looked at me.

The future I’m going home to waits like an open grave.

What the fuck am I going to do?

“Wake up.”