Chapter 67: Slap Back to Reality

Elyse’s P.O.V

I wake up with a groan, a sharp throb in my skull the first thing I register. My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on cotton all night, and the world spins around me in a dizzying whirl. It takes a few long seconds before I can even open my eyes, and when I do, the sunlight streaming through the window is almost too much. I squint, trying to clear my vision. But as my brain catches up with my body, I freeze, feeling my heart start to race.

I’m not alone.

Not only is Cam’s arm wrapped tightly around my waist, but both of us are completely naked. The sheets are tangled around us, and his body presses into mine in a way that’s all too real and too intimate for my still-bleary mind. I try to sit up, but it’s like I’m trapped in place by the weight of my own body and the realization that I’m not wearing any clothes.

Panic shoots through me, but it’s quickly replaced by another, sharper pain—this time in my head. I clutch my skull, groaning in agony. What the hell happened last night? My mind struggles to piece it together, but the more I try to remember, the more everything feels like an abstract painting, a blur of disconnected images and feelings.

I... I remember Kyle. The red-haired woman. I remember how everything felt... off. But then it gets fuzzy, and then... nothing.

I try again, forcing my brain to push past the fog, and then it hits me: I was in rut. An overpowering rush of instinct and desire that had completely overtaken me. I feel sick to my stomach at the thought.

And then, the worst realization of all: I was with Cam. I’ve never been more horrified in my life.

I can’t even look at him right now. The idea that we might have… *done it* while I was in a rut, that I might’ve *knotted* inside him? I feel a knot form in my own stomach, my anxiety spiking. What if I had? What if... I got him pregnant? The weight of that thought hits me hard, like a truck.

I slowly, carefully, shift my body, trying not to disturb Cam too much. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to act in this situation. I barely even know what to say.

Cam stirs beside me, his breathing soft and slow, the warmth of his body still pressing into mine. He must feel me move because his eyes flutter open, and his gaze meets mine. The way he looks at me makes my chest tighten, and it’s not out of affection—no, it’s confusion, a lingering sense of discomfort, just like I feel. He blinks, clearly still half asleep, and then his brow furrows.

I can’t take it anymore. The overwhelming nausea slams into me, sharp and unforgiving. I push Cam off of me, the motion jerky and uncoordinated, as I scramble out of the bed. My head spins with every movement, but the urge to puke is too strong to ignore. I don’t even remember standing up, but the next thing I know, I’m stumbling toward the bathroom, my hand gripping the doorframe for support.

I barely make it to the toilet before the sickness takes over. My stomach lurches, and I lean over the bowl, heaving violently, the bitter taste of alcohol burning in the back of my throat. My body convulses as I empty my stomach into the toilet, the sound of my retching echoing in the bathroom like a cruel reminder of the mess I’ve made of everything.

With every wave of nausea, regret digs deeper into my chest. I can't stop thinking about how I ended up here, about how I let everything spiral out of control. My head is full of a haze, and even though I can barely breathe through the discomfort, my mind won't let go of the thought that this is all my fault.

I don’t even realize Cam is there until I feel his hand on my back, gently rubbing in small circles. The warmth of his touch is a small comfort against the chaos inside me, but it doesn't change anything.

“Hey, hey... you're okay, Elyse. Just breathe,” he murmurs softly, his voice full of concern.

I can’t find the words to answer him. I just grip the edge of the toilet harder, trying to steady myself as the nausea gradually subsides. Cam stays there, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm, and I can’t help but feel a little guilty for dragging him into this mess. He shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I’m able to sit back against the cool tile wall. My head hangs low, and I can feel the sweat dripping down my forehead. My breathing is still uneven, and I can’t shake the pounding in my skull.

Cam sits in front of me, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes soft but filled with an edge of disappointment. “How are you feeling now?”

“I’m fine.” I barely manage, my voice hoarse.

“You’re not fine, Elyse,” he says, his tone a little more serious now. “I told you, you can’t hold your liquor. You know that.” His words hit harder than I expected, and for a second, I wince. “You shouldn’t have done this to yourself. You shouldn’t have gotten that drunk.”

I look up at him, my mouth dry, but the words stick in my throat. I know he’s right. Hell, I’ve always known he’s right. I can’t handle alcohol like others can. One drink turns into a dozen, and then I’m completely out of control. But I couldn’t stop last night. I just couldn’t.

“I didn’t mean to,” I croak, my voice barely audible. I swallow hard. “I drank too much. I just... I don’t even remember how it happened. One minute, I’m fine, and the next I’m... I’m in bed with you.”

Cam doesn’t seem to soften. Instead, his expression hardens, disappointment turning into a scolding edge.

“You’re smarter than this, Elyse,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “You *know* better. You’ve always known better. I’ve told you before—the alcohol messes with your head and if you get into rut at that time…it’ll only make things worse. You’ve got to take responsibility for this. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

I want to argue. I want to tell him that it’s not that simple, that last night wasn’t entirely my fault, that I had reasons for losing control, reasons I didn’t even want to think about. But I know deep down that it’s pointless and I could never tell him what those reasons were. He’s right, and I hate it.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice heavy with a mix of guilt and shame. “I didn’t mean to... I didn’t want this to happen.”

“Promise me you’ll never get drunk like this again?” He asks, his voice tinged with something close to pity.

I open my mouth to respond, to say something—anything—to acknowledge Cam’s words. But then I freeze. My eyes fall on him again, and this time, they land lower. My breath catches in my throat as I see the marks scattered across his skin, the love bites and bruises that paint his body. They’re dark and vivid, the kind that clearly weren’t just from last night.

The love bites, the bruises—they weren’t from me. I would’ve remembered that wouldn’t I? The anger, the desperation, the primal desire. The rut. I would’ve known. But no, these weren’t mine. They were from someone else.

I feel a knot form in my stomach, the last bit of nausea creeping back up. My hands tremble slightly as I try to process what I’m seeing, but I can’t look away. I don’t even know how to ask. The words feel like they’re stuck in my throat, too much for me to handle. But I have to. I have to know.