Page 104 of Inside the Sun

And my brain is just too tired for it.

I’m still staring at the ceiling, like I’m in a trance. I hate my life so much it’s beyond words. Part of me even regrets Vito didn’t just put a bullet in my head.

But hey, it’s not over yet. Anzo is already angry at me. Whatever I do next that doesn’t sit well with him, he may just end my nightmare, consider me too much of a liability.

I shut my eyes and press my forearms to my forehead.

Whether I want it or not, my thoughts drift back to what happened in the shower.

That wild impulse pushed me to do it, even though I knew exactly how it’d end:

I would cry like a baby!

Again. And make everything awkward.

That’s just how I am: I cry after sex. And yeah, I know it looks weird. I could tell it completely threw him off. Made him want to bolt right out of there.

Can’t blame him. That kind of reaction isn’t something people want to deal with during a hookup.

It’s one of the reasons I decided a long time ago to only sleep with people I actually date.

I can explain once—"it’s just how I am"—and not have to feel stupid in the next incident.

But nevertheless, at least it finally happened. My first orgasm since Anzo abducted me.

And for that, I’m grateful to Ragnar. I can still phantom-feel that monster cock of his deep inside me. No one’s ever stretched me like that. No one’s ever gone that deep.

It was a weird, primal feeling. Peculiar, but so exciting! And just like I’d hoped, in those few moments when he was fucking me, I managed to forget everything. My shitty fate. Anzo. The danger.

But then it all came rushing back, like it always does. That feeling that I’ve wasted the last two years doing everything I shouldn’t, hurting myself more than anyone else, refusing to heal, to move on.

Even though I really didn’t want to break down… I did. Sobbed. It all just overwhelmed me.

That crushing sense of being trapped with no way out. Trapped in my life, not just in The Sun!

It’s the most frustrating part: Me. I threw myself into one kind of hell after another, long before Anzo shoved me into a new one.

I roll over and press my face into the pillows, not wanting to think.

Hating to think.

I just want to drift off. Sleep.

***

I wake up the next morning to someone knocking on the door.

I open it, and standing in the hallway is a man I don’t recognize. A short beta, holding a package. He gives me a stiff little bow and says,

"Mr. Anzo sends you this outfit for the event."

Without waiting for a response, he walks in, sets the package on the bed with a blank expression, then turns around and leaves. The staff Anzo hires seem incredibly robotic.

I immediately tear into it. Inside is a delicate Greek-style outfit, tied at the shoulders with golden rings, made of sheer, almost see-through fabric. There’s a golden rope belt to cinch at the waist, a pair of gold sandals, and a laurel wreath for my head. There’s also a whole collection of gold jewelry: bracelets, rings, necklaces, earrings. All of it looks real. Wow. Anzo seriously wants me to dress up like the god Apollo.

I’ve read a little Greek mythology before, among other things, Apollo was this beautiful god of music, prophecy, but also death and healing, ironically, often depicted with long golden curls, playing instruments like the lyre.

As if on cue, I hear footsteps outside, and then a knock on the door again. A few men walk in and silently carry out my harp that had been sitting in the corner. I don’t say a word. I figure they’re taking it to the garden, where I’m supposed to play during the banquet.

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