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The party has completely cometo life as we make our way back downstairs, only two hours left until the clock strikes midnight. Jensen hands me another tall glass of champagne, before raising his.
“What a great way to end the year,” he says. “With a bang.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I happily reply, taking a small sip until someone bumps into my shoulder, almost knocking me over.
“What the fuck, man,” Micah snaps, and they’re all on alert.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going,” Damien coldly threatens.
“My bad,” the guy says. A royal blue mask hides his identity, and he apologetically holds up his hands. “I meant no harm. Wasn’t watching where I was going—”
Suddenly, my glass falls from my grasp, shattering against the floor.
My heart hammers.
I’m no longer breathing.
I’m paralyzed with emotions I can’t comprehend.
I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Shit,” the guy curses, moving closer as I step back, nearly dragging Micah in front of me in the process. “You okay?”
That voice.
I know that voice.
It’s him.
Eric Spellman.
My rapist.
“Quinn?”Damien questions, his jaw clenched tight with concern.
“What’s wrong?” Jensen asks, grabbing my arm.
And I flinch.
“Quinn,” Damien repeats, louder.
“Quinn,” Eric cheerfully lets out, as if nothing’s happened between us.
As if he didn’t ignore me when I begged him to stop. When I said no to him. Over and over. When I struggled beneath him the best that I could, while he pinned me against the stiff mattress. When he gave me no choice other than to take his invasion, whether I consented or not.
“It’s good to see you again,” he begins, until I turn fast on my heel.
Bolting toward the front door, I do the only thing I can think of in this moment.
This time, I escape.
