My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas

I scrub and I scrub, yet I can’t seem to erase the traces of my lust and idiocy off my skin.

Even if I were to shed my skin like an anaconda, every corner of this house reeks of my debauchery. While the enablers were separated:

One is using the line between life and death like a f-cking trampoline

The other cooking fettuccine in the kitchen while listening to Britney Spears.

And me, the final part of the equation scrubbing my skin off like that would help at anything else than an everything shower.

But how am I supposed to get out?

I can’t face Tom. The guilt eats me out harder than Emiliano did and not even half as pleasurable.

As for Emiliano—

What is he even doing here?

Acting like nothing happened as well.

You know what?

I should get out!