“Starling,” Clay says excitedly the moment I step into the kitchen, the rich smell of garlic surrounding me as Hunter stirs a pan on the stove.

“Hey.”

“Come, sit,” Evan says enthusiastically, like an overeager puppy.

My eyes search the room for my nemesis, but he’s not here and I’m disappointed. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t be disappointed that Sebastian’s not here, there’s no way that’s possible. I’m wary, that’s all it is. Years of paranoid conditioning has me looking for him, nothing more.

“Er, is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, feeling like I need to be on my best behavior.

“Hunter’s fine, come and sit,” Clay grins, reaching for me and then stopping himself at the last minute.

“Thank you for offering, but it’s only pasta, as soon as Bastian gets down here, I’ll plate up,” Hunter says, his voice soft. Weirdly, Hunter is the one I’m the least angry with, maybe it’s the fact that he’s always appeared to feel bad about the things Sebastian did? He never did anything to stop it, but I think on some level he felt how wrong it was.

“Is he?” I swallow. “He’s eating too? I wasn’t sure.”

“We can ask him not to,” Evan offers.

“No,” I reply a little too quickly. “No, it’s fine, I just wasn’t sure if he had class or whatever,” I trail off lamely.

All of the air is sucked from the room when he walks in. His chest is bare and his hair is still wet. He must have just gotten out of the shower and all he’s wearing is a pair of loose basketball shorts, even his feet are bare. I can’t look away.

How can I hate this man so much and still react to him so strongly? I live with three other incredibly hot guys, and today a cute football player suggested we have sex and my body was tied down tighter than a submissive in a BDSM book. But apparently the moment my tormentor, my jailer, the man who is the cause of all of the absolute worst times in my life steps into the room, I’m practically flooded with arousal.

My panties are damp and I know without looking that my nipples have tightened and pebbled in reaction to his nearness. Every single orgasm I’ve had in the last two and a half years has either been given by him, or was a direct result of fantasizing about him.

But while I’m creating a lake between my legs, he has barely glanced in my direction. He’s unaffected, completely disinterested. He knows I’m here, I saw him look at me and then look away as if I’m not worth even a second glance.

Two weeks ago his cock was inside of me, tearing through my virginity and using me in a way no one has ever done before. The things he said to me that night—that I was his, that my cunt, my mouth, my ass all belonged to him, that l was his cum slut, that all his seed was for me—and now I’m nothing.