Sophia's Point Of View
The room was dim, washed in a golden hue from the morning sun bleeding through the curtains. Dust particles floated aimlessly, untouched by time. The air was still thick with sweat, power, and violation.
I lay there for a long time, staring at nothing, feeling everything.
My thighs ached. My center throbbed with soreness, pulsing in pain with every shallow breath. The sheets were damp beneath me, stained with the remnants of his possession. I wanted to scream, to tear the room apart, to rip my skin open and claw out everything he'd touched.
But I didn't.
Instead, I forced my trembling body to sit up. Slowly. Carefully. Like every inch of me was stitched together with broken glass.
I winced. My hand flew to my abdomen, a sharp gasp tearing from my lips as the pain lanced through me.
"You're fine," I whispered to myself. My voice cracked. "You're okay. It's just pain."
No. It wasn't just pain.
It was humiliation. It was rage.
