Chapter 11: He Knows Where I Sleep

Day six dawned quiet and merciless, the kind of off-season stillness that made the resort feel like it had been abandoned just for me. I stayed locked in my room from the moment the sun rose, curtains drawn tight against the golden light spilling across the balcony tiles. No beach chair today. No sundress fluttering against my thighs. No risk of spotting him behind that bar with his easy smile and those arms that had held me down until I broke. Instead I paced the small space in a loose cotton robe, bare feet silent on the cool tile, the faint hum of the ceiling fan the only sound besides the distant murmur of waves I refused to let soothe me.

My body ached in ways that refused to fade. The bruises on my wrists had deepened to a soft violet, faint fingerprints blooming where his grip had pinned me against the bungalow wall. A tender ring of red circled my throat from the night before, hidden now beneath the robe’s collar but burning every time I swallowed. Lower, between my legs, I was still swollen and slick with the evidence he’d left inside me—warm trails that leaked out whenever I moved too suddenly, staining the fresh panties I’d forced myself to wear for the first time since arrival. I kept one hand pressed low on my belly without thinking, right where he’d flattened his palm again and again, as if I could will the possibility away. The calendar on my phone stared back at me from the nightstand. Two days late. Two days of nothing but this heavy, secret dread curling tighter every hour.

I told myself I was done. No more La Ola. No more walks along the waterline where the sand still remembered the shape of my bare feet. Room service for every meal, the balcony door cracked only enough for the breeze to carry the salt air without letting the world in. I tried to read, but the words blurred into memories of his breath hot against my ear, the wet drag of him sliding through the mess he’d already made. When the cleaning staff knocked at noon I froze in the bathroom, heart hammering against my ribs until their cart rolled away down the hall. By afternoon I was curled on the bed in the sundress I’d chosen for its modest length and the simple cotton panties beneath, but even that thin barrier felt like a joke—my nipples tightened against the fabric every time the fan stirred the air, and the ache between my thighs only grew heavier, a slow, insistent pulse I hated myself for noticing. I had walked to the front desk at lunch and asked for a room change; the clerk had smiled politely and said every room was booked through the weekend. I knew it was a lie.

Evening crept in humid and thick, the sky outside turning the deep rose I used to chase with my camera on the beach. I ate the rice and plantains delivered to my door without tasting them, lights off, balcony door open just a crack so the ocean’s steady murmur filtered through like a warning I no longer trusted. I changed into the short white sundress from earlier in the trip, the one that still carried the faint coconut scent of my lotion, and slipped beneath the thin sheet with every intention of sleeping through whatever came next. My hand drifted low again, resting over the gentle curve of my belly, and the fear sharpened into something darker, something that made my thighs press together despite the shame.