9: Welcome to the Whore House

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You guys really deserve a cookie. Holy fudgecakes you stuck around for this. I can't thank you enough for being proud supporters. Here ya go: (It's transparent, change your background on mobile and thank Chick-fil-A)

 Here ya go: (It's transparent, change your background on mobile and thank Chick-fil-A)

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I wake up to Daniel Keene, for the third time ever, and let out a soft groan as I stretch and remember yesterday's occurrences.

"Oh man," I murmur under my breath, my eyes still squeezed shut. I turn into my pillow.

I can't believe all of that happened. Holy shi—

"Such a potty mouth, Aspen," Daniel's voice comes from behind me, sounding very husky from sleep.

I freeze. I said that out loud.

He's still here. Oh my god, he's still here. What does that mean?

And then I remember what I did last night while in shock from the day's events.

Oh my god...

As I'm freaking out in my head, his fingertips leave feather-light touches along my arm, and I am forced to shiver into him. He tightens his hold on me, bringing me back into his chest. His warmth radiates around us. My sheets are thin. Myra never paid for good sheets or blankets to really keep us warm. But with him here, I feel like I'm cuddled next to a warm, crackling fire. He threads his fingers with mine and rests them on my stomach.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs.

How hot it is... And also, how stupid I am.

Last night was embarrassing, to say the least. I know enough about mental health to know that I was in shock last night and clearly not thinking soundly, but it's still awkward to remember. I won't dare bring it up.

"Where are the other girls?" I ask him instead. I can't let my thoughts be consumed of him when he's not permanent. He's not permanent. None of this is permanent. That's what life had taught me, and I'd be damned if I didn't heed its warning.

"In their rooms, I guess," he whispers.

He rubs his thumb along my pointer finger as if he's thinking about something, and then I can almost feel his gaze on my wrists—on the marks that mar them.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" he says while he runs the side of his pinkie finger gently along the red, raw skin.

I shrug indifferently. Why did he expect that I would?

"You're not around me. It's not like we sit with each other at lunch everyday, sharing all our secrets and I've just been hiding it from you."

"You could have told me when I was at the club with you."

"Why would I?" I finally snap, irritated. My whole life is about keeping secrets. Why does he think he deserves to know them? I try to squirm around in his grip so that I can look him in the face. "You were just there because Andrew called you, right?"

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