Chapter 5 IN HIS BED

CHAPTER 5

Constantine's POV

I wake up to sunlight stabbing through my eyelids like tiny daggers, and for a moment, I think I'm dead.

My head pounds as though someone was driving millions of hammers on my head, the beat sending sharp pains through my skull. My  mouth feels like it tastes like soured alcohol and my body…God, my body feels like I've been hit by a truck.

No. Scratch that. It feels like I've been thoroughly, completely, utterly used.

I groan, rolling onto my side, and that's when I feel it. The soreness between my thighs. The ache in my hips. The tenderness in places that shouldn't be tender unless—

My eyes snap open.

This isn't my room.

The ceiling above me is too high, too clean and fine. The sheets beneath me are silk, not the cheap cotton I bought on sale three years ago. The air smells expensive…like, there is this kind of smell expesive things smeels like… like cedar and leather and something else, something masculine that makes my stomach flip in a way I don't want to acknowledge.

I sit up too fast, and the room spins. I clutch the sheet to my chest, my heart hammering as I take in my surroundings. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Minimalist furniture. Everything is black, white, or gray, like color is a weakness this room refuses to indulge in.

Where the hell am I?

I look down at myself and my breath catches in my throat. I'm naked. Completely, utterly naked except for the silk sheet I'm clutching like it's the only thing between me and total humiliation.

My dress—the one I wore last night—is crumpled on the floor near the door, discarded like trash. My underwear is… I don't even see my underwear.

‘No. No, no, no…Please no.’

I press my palms against my temples, trying to remember. Trying to piece together the fragments of last night that are swimming in the fog of my hangover.

The bar. Ivy. The drinks. Too many drinks. The call from the nursing home. The man at the bar who wouldn't leave me alone. And then…

Then what?

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to think past the pounding in my head. There was someone. Someone who pulled that creep away from me. Someone who…

My stomach drops.

Ice-blue eyes. A cold voice. Strong hands gripping my waist, my throat, my—

‘Oh my God.’

The memories come crashing back in pieces, fragmented and hazy but undeniable. The office. The desk. The mirror. The way he bent me over and—

Oh God, I'm going to be sick.

I stumble out of bed, the sheet tangled around my legs, and barely make it to the en-suite bathroom before my stomach makes me pour out its content. I collapse on the cold tile floor, clutching the toilet bowl as my body purges everything from last night. When I'm done, I sit back against the wall, trembling, my vision blurring with tears I refuse to let fall.

I slept with him.

I slept with the man who humiliated me in front of an entire interview panel. The man who spilled coffee on me and didn't even apologize. The man who looked at me like I was dirt on the bottom of his thousand-dollar shoes. 

And I don't even remember most of it.

I bury my face in my hands, a broken laugh escaping my lips. Of course. Of course, this is my life now. Wake up late, lose the job, get evicted, and then fuck the one man who made it clear he wants nothing to do with me.

Congratulations, Constantine. You've officially hit rock bottom.

I force myself to stand, gripping the edge of the sink for support. My reflection stares back at me, and I barely recognize the woman looking back. My hair is a mess, tangled and wild. My lips are swollen. And my neck…

My fingers trace the marks on my skin. Dark, bruising marks that trail from my collarbone down to my shoulder. Bite marks. Hickeys. Evidence of a night I can barely remember but can feel in every aching inch of my body.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to find whoever invented tequila and punch them in the face because they were the ones that did this to me. But instead, I splash cold water on my face and try to pull myself together. I need to get out of here. I need to leave before he wakes up—if he's even still here. I need to go home, shower, and pretend last night never happened.

I wrap the sheet around myself like a toga and tiptoe back into the bedroom. My dress is still on the floor, and I grab it quickly, shaking it out. It's wrinkled and smells like alcohol and sweat, but it'll have to do.

I'm halfway through pulling it over my head when the door opens.

I freeze, my heart stopping mid-beat as he walks in.

Wyatt.