It was never the same woman.
Sometimes, I caught glimpses of them slipping out in the morning. Sometimes, when I dropped by the kitchen for a glass of water, someone was sucking Quinlan off by the counter. Or straddling Soren on the couch. Kissing Jericho's neck. Hands deep in Mercer's pants, stroking him.
They should've been the ones ashamed at their complete lack of discretion, but it was me who ran every time, heat in her cheeks.
Unable to sleep. Unable to get rid of the images. Unable to get rid of that ache blooming somewhere in my chest.
I knew this was about me. They always looked right at me before touching the women, as if to make a point.
I didn't understand what the point was. I didn't understand why they were doing this to me. I meant nothing more to them than another number in their race, and yet, it felt like it was something deeper, something darker. Primal. It existed on a different plane of understanding than I was.
