We started at Beretta’s, but when Ransom called them to say he would be longer than planned, we left for my house.

The boys moved Monti’s video game console into my room and have been playing an obnoxious shooting game for the last half hour while I finish up homework for my English class.

The boys are as lost in their online world as I am in modern-day literature so we don’t hear him walk in.

We don’t realize he’s here until my bedroom door is slammed shut.

I jolt, my laptop flipping off the pillow I had it perched on, my head snapping to the right as my legs slip over the edge of the bed.

Ransom leans against the wall directly beside it, his hand reaching over to twist the lock, trapping us inside. His head is dropped against the frame, and he stares down the length of his nose, right at me.

I hardly register the TV being shut off, but I do glance over my shoulder when my shutters are pushed closed, every trace of natural light fading around me. I meet Beretta’s gaze as he draws the curtains shut, and then all that’s left is the glow from my light.

My toes burrow in the carpet at my feet, and then Arsen is in front of me.

His hand glides up my neck, and when I take a deep breath, he nods, stepping back.

I stand and Ransom pushes off the door.

His body is weighted, sagging, but his eyes are wild and raking over mine like he’s famished and only I can satisfy the hunger burning inside him. The need radiating off of him. The desperation thumping in the veins of his neck.

Goose bumps form along my legs as his focus falls to the satin of my lounge shorts, and his teeth sink into his bottom lip.

My ribs constrict, my core muscles clenching.

He tears his shirt from his body, stretching his shoulders out wide, but he quickly falls against the door, and slowly, his friends glide closer.

“Take off her top,” he rasps, and his words are felt between my legs.

My body twitches, but when it’s Beretta’s hands that fall over my shoulders from behind, a grating voice seeps in, hijacking a moment that should be mine. Ours.

Have you had him alone?

Beretta’s fingers float along my sides, to the hem of my shirt, and slowly, he pushes the soft fabric up and over my breasts.

Ransom’s nostrils flare, a mix of anger and envy, a hint of something else.

Do you know what makes him tick?

My top is lifted over my shoulders, and as my hair slips free, spilling over my chest, Ransom’s hands wrap around the buckle of his belt, pushing. Squeezing.

Arsen slips closer and my eyes slide his way.

His smile is small, gentle and he looks to his friend.