"But it wasn't consensual." I can't bring myself to look at him. He already knows the answer — he always does. Shaking my head slowly, I confirm it for him, immediately feeling all the hate and disgust for myself like I did that night. "Who?" he asks, his voice sharp. There's no playfulness anymore, just darkness as he demands answers. "I don't know," I tell him honestly. "One of my father's friends. They were drunk. My father lost a bet and apparently I was the prize. I don't remember much."
