“Hey, no harm done. You’ll feel better in a few hours, and I bet you got a good night’s sleep.”

“Go to hell.”

“Whatever you say.” He stands, grabbing something off my desk I’ve never seen before and tossing it onto the bed. “Anyway, before I go to hell the way you think I should, I figured I would give you this. You want to take care of that—keep it clean so it doesn’t get infected. And use this on it.”

I can barely even focus my eyes, much less read what’s on the bottle he dropped on the bed. “What are you talking about?” Even saying those few words is enough to exhaust me. He needs to leave the room so I can lie back down. I don’t trust him enough to do it now, but he’s still standing here.

“It’s lotion. For aftercare.”

“Aftercare for what, though?”

He tilts his head to the side, smirking. “You mean you really don’t remember? I thought for sure. Don’t you feel it?”

Dread begins tickling the back of my mind, spreading its way through my brain. “Remember what? Feel what?”

“The tattoo you wanted. You asked for it and everything.”

“Just stop fucking with me, please? That’s all I want.”

“You think I’m fucking with you? You’ll feel differently once you look in the mirror. It’s pretty nice work, actually. I’m almost jealous.”

A tattoo? No way would I ever ask for a tattoo—and I wasn’t even conscious. He’s just trying to scare me. I’m not going to make it that easy.

On the other hand… Wasn’t that the whole reason I was going to get up in the first place? The feeling that something was wrong, something I needed to check out?

I forget about the way my head feels, tumbling out of bed and stumbling toward the bathroom. No way. They wouldn’t do this to me. I go in and close the door, then lower my jeans and turn around.

Tears spring to my eyes at the sight of it. A small heart over my left butt cheek, low enough that it’s hidden by my clothes but most definitely there. I squint my eyes and move closer to the mirror. Even though it’s backward, the word is clear. Alistair. They had their last name tattooed on my ass.

Frantic, I rub at it, but it only hurts, and the ink doesn’t move. It’s a real tattoo, not something they drew on in pen to mess with me. A helpless, hopeless little whimper works its way from my throat. I can’t believe this. Just when I think I’ve seen it all from them, they go and remind me how much worse things could be.