The fire had dwindled to a nest of red embers, casting long, trembling shadows across the living room. The tree lights still blinked in slow, hypnotic rhythm, but the glow felt colder now, like the room itself understood what was coming. My body hummed—overstimulated, aching in the best and worst ways—from the hours of mouths and hands and whispered claims. My thighs were sticky, my neck marked with faint bruises, my lips swollen. I sat on the rug in nothing but Dirk’s oversized flannel shirt, knees drawn up, hair tangled, breathing uneven.
Ten men remained in the room, scattered in a loose semicircle. Some shirtless, some still half-dressed, all of them watching me with the same raw hunger and quiet terror. No one had left. No one had spoken since Aiden walked out.
I looked up at them,
