Page 152 of I’m The Worst

I yank the shirt up fast enough to make my head pound harder.

My piercings are gone? I bolt upright so fast that the room spins again. Panic punches straight through the hangover while I frantically scan the bed.

No clothes.

No panties.

No stilettos.

Nothing.

The shirt slips halfway off my shoulder while I spin toward the floor, looking for literally anything that belongs to me. My nipples ache badly enough to throb.

“Fuck,” I hiss again, pressing a hand against my forehead while my pulse spikes harder. The ends of my hair are damp…did I shower?

I need my phone.

I need to figure out where the hell I am before I have a full mental breakdown. A door creaks open behind me, and I spin around.

The room tilts again⁠—

Then the air leaves my lungs completely.

Wolff steps out of the bathroom wearing nothing but gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, water dripping from dark hair down the hard lines of his chest and stomach. A towel hangs over one broad shoulder while steam curls behind him through the doorway.

For one disorienting second, relief hits me so powerfully it almost hurts. Then rage slams into it immediately after.

“You fucking asshole.”

Wolff stops dead in the middle of the room.

His eyes drop to my body wearing his shirt.

“What the hell is this? Where are my clothes? My piercings?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Which somehow makes me angrier. His eyes drag slowly over me.

“I took them out. Your tits look better without them.”

“You fucking what?” I bite out.

“You’ll thank me later.”

“You bastard.” I grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at his head. “You had no right—” He catches the pillow easily, tossing it to the side. His voice stays infuriatingly calm.

“I saw the same video everyone did. You were unconscious when they pierced you.”

Heat burns my cheeks, and I swallow roughly.

I’ve been trying not to think about the video.

Trying not to think about waking up sore and bleeding with metal shoved through my nipples and half the Sovereign passing clips around. Laughing at the Commander’s fucked-up daughter. My hand twitches toward my chest, but I stop myself. I won’t let him see how much this is fucking with me.

“Where am I?”

“My house.”

He walks toward me slowly, and my legs back up automatically until the backs of my thighs hit the mattress. Crowding into my space, his broad chest almost brushes mine while heat rolls off his skin. I feel exposed—vulnerable and fucking pissed.