Page 67 of Unmarked

The steam curls around me like a humid guilt blanket, fogging up the mirror and pretending to be comforting.

It’s not.

It’s just enabling me.

I tilt my head back and let the water pound my shoulders like it owes me rent. I pretend it’s washing away the shame, the slick, the sudden spiral of whatever the hell my body decided to do in that SUV and every moment since.

It’s not working.

I drag my hands down my body, checking for signs that I’m still human and not just a walking puddle of pheromones and regret. My legs are shaking again. Not enough to fall over, but enough that I know what’s coming.

Heat, round two. Ding ding.

I finish fast, mostly because I’m worried if I stay in any longer, I’ll either faint or try to hump the wall tiles.

(I won’t.)

(Probably.)

(I think.)

I grab a towel from the rack. It’s fluffy and borderline luxurious - clearly the kind of towel that costs more than my entire skincare routine.

But I still miss my ratty blue one from home. The one that smells like detergent and bad decisions and has a hole the size of my fist in the corner.

I wrap it around myself and step into the en suite. Here, everything’s grey or chrome or quietly judging me.

I spot the robe on the bench and pull it on. It’s soft and lavender-scented.

I hate how comforting it is.

Back in the bedroom -containment suite? holding cell? libido dungeon?- I pause. It’s too clean. Tooquiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts echo extra loud and makes you wish you’d brought a playlist, or at least a tiny angry friend for emotional support.

(Lexi.I left Lexi back there, at the gala.Shit.)

Along with my bag, my phone, my camera -

My entire goddamn life.

“Good job, Rhea,” I mutter to myself. “Very subtle omega meltdown. Ten out of ten.”

A restless kind of itch works under my skin, and I drift toward the dresser, tugging open drawers just todosomething, just to fill the silence.

The top one is empty. The second drawer has a blanket.

It's thick, cozy, and emotionally supportive. I hesitate, and then pull it out and hug it to my chest, breathing in the clean cotton scent like it might whisper affirmations.

The bed looks too big. Too cold. The clinical neatness of it bothers me, somehow, like it's daring me to disturb it.

I carry the blanket to the bed and toss it across the foot, and then proceed to rearrange the bed like some sort of manic nesting raccoon.

A pillow here. Another pillow there. Blanket tucked right over the foot. No - now it’s too symmetrical. Move it again. Ruin the perfectly tucked sheets.

Take that, Vale.

It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.

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