A beer bottle topples at my feet, and I stop to scan the room, my gaze landing on a girl draped across a couch. Her head hangs off one end, creating the perfect angle for a guy to use her mouth. Another man kneels with his head buried between her thighs as she moans around the girth of the other guy’s cock. The sight slams into me, dredging up a memory, and icy fear surges through my veins.

Axel.

The past crashes into my consciousness, as loud as the pulsating music in Ford’s great room. My heart pounds faster, breaths uneven and shallow. I brace a hand against the wall for stability, but the flashback is relentless.

I remember being weightless in Axel’s arms, my limbs too heavy to fight as he carried me down a dim hallway. Most of that night is hazy, but one image cuts through the fog…an open door to a shadowy room, where three figures lay tangled on the couch in a whirl of sex and drugs.

That fleeting glimpse sears into my mind, followed by the horror of my attacker taking me into the next room. After that…

Forceful hands.

Terror.

Darkness.

I shove the flashback into the deepest corner of my mind and look for Ford, needing the presence of someone safe and familiar before I start hyperventilating.

But he’s nowhere to be found.

Desperate to stifle the panic, I snatch up a half-empty bottle from the table and take a long swig, the bite of alcohol stinging my nose.

“Ford?” I call out over the music. No one hears me. No one cares. Clutching the bottle tighter, I stagger through the smoke and bodies, my vision blurring from booze and the threat of tears. His bedroom door stands wide open at the end of the hall. I stumble toward it, full of anxiety as I reach the threshold.

Ford is sprawled on a sofa, his shirt unbuttoned, knees spread as a petite brunette crouches between them. Her head bobs a constant rhythm in his lap, but he’s unmoving, his expression dazed. Does he even realize what’s happening below the belt? Or is he too far gone to grasp the situation?

As I watch the woman exploit his intoxication, a surge of fury rises in me. Setting the liquor bottle down on a table, I step forward and grip her long brown hair, twisting hard enough to pull a yelp from her.

“Get out,” I say, tone jagged like a serrated blade.

“What the hell?” She stares at me with wide, startled eyes. “Who do you think you are?”

“I’m the queen of this God-forsaken tower.” Releasing her hair, I give her a dismissive look. “And you are leaving.”

She hesitates, eyes narrowing as if she might challenge me. But then, with a frown of uncertainty, she scrambles to her feet, and I barely notice the door slamming upon her hasty exit.