As slowly and carefully as I can, I ease Will off me. Flecks of dirt fall from my sticky, grimy back. My joints creak as I stand—my body stiff and aching in places I didn’t know could fucking ache.

Will rolls away from me, curling an arm up around his head. My eyes hone in on his tight, lightly tanned ass, and for one split second, I think I’m going to lose it. Right fucking here.

Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him, this isn’t his fault, just go—

I dart my wild gaze around, taking in the clothes strewn about.

Will’s dead to the fucking world, bare ass naked, with scratches all along his fucking back. I doubt his front fared any better. There’s no fucking hiding this. No denying what happened.

Isn’t that what you wanted? a cruel, knowing voice whispers.

Air squeezes out of my lungs, whistling through my teeth as they begin to chatter. My face pulls in with a repressed sob. I can’t do this, I can’t fucking do this.

The guys will be home in a matter of hours. What if he doesn’t wake up? What if they see?

Blindly, I grab my jeans. My shirt. My boxers. I spot Will’s phone in my periphery and grab it, praying it doesn’t require a passcode.

It doesn’t. That fucking idiot, that beautiful fucking idiot.

I easily find the alarm app, but it takes me longer than it should to set it, my fingers are shaking so bad.

I place it right near his head, double-checking to make sure the volume is on max. I grab his clothes and set them there too. Taking one last look around, I nod to myself. The rest can wait till later. The rest doesn’t raise alarms.

I hear my dad’s ugly, cruel chuckle in my ears. His mocking words growing louder and crueler by the second.

“Watch, boy. Watch.”

The speakers are still playing music, but I don’t pay it any notice. It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now.

I don’t remember running upstairs.

Stumbling into my bedroom...

My bathroom.

My clothes are piled next to my feet as I lean over the sink, looking up from my eyes at the stranger staring at me through the mirror.

Red and purplish marks decorate my bare chest and neck. There are scratches on my biceps, disappearing under the ink. I don’t have to turn to see the scratches on my back, and there’s dry blood just below my lower lip. His or mine—who the fuck knows?

I grip the edge of the sink, falling forward until my head meets the glass with a thud. Dark hair falls over my eyes, cutting through my vision.

My hazel eyes are bloodshot as I stare into them, until my vision’s crossing, and I can no longer see anything.