The Prototype

61. A Dangerous Proposition

TEMPEST

Feeling the unbearable pounding in my skull, a thunderous rhythm that started as a faint thrum but escaped into a merciless hammering, yanking me out of the darkness of sleep. My eyelids dragged open, heavy with exhaustion, the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains did little to soften the agony radiating from my temples. The digital clock on my nightstand burned the red against the black—4:05 a.m.

A groan, low and guttural, rumbled from my throat as I rolled onto my side. My palm pressed against my temple in a futile attempt to soothe the pounding ache, but it offered no solace. My mouth dry, rough like sandpaper, every swallow scraping against my throat. Acid churning in my stomach, a slow, threatening burn, the nausea creeping higher with every sluggish breath.

The consequences of last night's indulgence of alcohol hitting me full force now, sharp and punishing. Craving relief, water, aspirin, anything to take the edge off this goddamn hangover.

Forcing myself upright, every movement cautious, slow, my body a tightrope of tension to avoid upsetting the precarious balance of my stomach. The cotton sheets slipped from my body, pooling at my exposed waist as I sat on the edge of the bed. The cool air spilling from the vents brushing against my skin, leaving goosebumps trailing in its wake.

My eyes dragged toward the bottom of the bed where the silk robe lay in careless abandon—a casualty of chaos left behind. I slowly reached for it, wrapping it tightly around myself, the cool fabric brushing against the brown lace bra and panties I threw on last night after scrubbing the filth of Marcellus's party from my skin.

My feet found the soft, matching house shoes waiting obediently by the side of the bed. Releasing a shaky breath, gathering myself as I stood. The room swayed, a nauseating tilt that made me grip the bed for balance. Slowly the dizziness receded, and the world snapped back into place. The soles of my slippers barely made a sound against the polished floors as I shuffled out of my bedroom, the faint glow of the hallway lights casting a soft subtle shadow of my body as I walked along it. The building steeped in silence. Not a soul stirred, nor a sound breaking the stillness.

Gripping the railing, I began to descend the stairs, the railing cool against the palm of my hand, each step a careful, deliberate action. The stillness of the building should have brought me peace, but my mind was anything but quiet.

Then it hit me.

The memory—no, a wreckage—came crashing forward.

A freight train slamming into me, derailing every coherent thought.

That kiss.

It surged forward in fragmented flashes, shards of memory piercing through the haze.

Overwhelmed. Isn't something I allowed myself to feel. Ever. But last night, for the first time since I've been in this fucking hellhole, I felt a mixture of extreme emotions—rage, shock, confusion, and something I couldn't name twisting deep inside me.

The memory came vividly now, sharp and unrelenting, tearing through my mind with ruthless precision. I could still feel it—the hard press of his lips against mine, demanding, unapologetic, as if he had the fucking right to take something I didn't offer. It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was an act of defiance—bold, arrogant, and dominant in a way that only Marcellus could be. It wasn't a request—it was a declaration.

My fingers curled tightly around the railing as the image played on an endless loop in my mind, tormenting me. My breath hitched, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I could still smell him—the intoxicating blend of his rich,  cologne with the faintest hint of cigar smoke, the aroma clinging to my skin, my senses, refusing to fade.