She wasn’t in her own bed, she knew that for sure. And she also wasn’t wearing her own clothes. In fact, she was wearing barely any clothes at all. In horror, Dolores jolted upright, and an immediate stab of pain in her head made her wish she hadn’t. It took her another second to discover that she was wearing no bra, no panties – just a huge white T-shirt that smelled of washing powder. What the hell happened? Ignoring the searing pain behind her eyes, she climbed out of the huge bed she was lying in, and got to her feet. She hurt all over. The room had wood-paneled walls and a wooden floor, scattered with heavy rugs. It looked like a man’s room. I’m in a man’s room, with no panties on? A wave of panic hit her, and she rushed around, looking for her clothes. But she couldn’t see them anywhere. The room was immaculate – not a thing out of place.

Just then, the door opened and Olsen walked in.

He gave her a cautious smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Olsen, what happened last night? Whose room am I in and why don’t I have my clothes on?” Panic made her voice sharper than she’d intended.

He held out a small pile of clothes. It was her bra, panties, pants, and shirt. “I washed them for you.”

“But why –” she crossed her arms over her breasts, hating the fact that he knew she was naked underneath the T-shirt. “I was drunk, wasn’t I? And then what happened?” she wailed.

Nothing like this had happened before, ever. She remembered arriving at the bar and ordering a drink. Or maybe two. And then Olsen was there. And then there was a huge blank. She was in a bathroom. And he was taking off her clothes, but she was shouting something. And struggling with him? “What did you do to me?” she demanded.

Olsen frowned. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything to you, Dolores.”

She grabbed her panties and put them on, quickly following them with her pants. “You took my clothes off. I thought you were a gentleman. And a considerate, kind person. But no! You took advantage of me.” She looked around wildly, full of embarrassment, tears flooding her eyes.

“What?! Dolores, please, just listen to me for a moment.”

“I have to go,” she muttered, striding toward the door. There was a flight of stairs to the left. She took it, discovering the rest of her things lying by the front door.

“Dolores, wait!” Olsen called. She tugged the front door open and stepped outside.

Did he have sex with me last night? Did I consent to it? She strode quickly down the forest road that led away from Olsen’s house. The thought of him seeing her like that, when she wasn’t conscious enough to be aware that he was looking at her made her sick to her stomach. The scars on her body, her other imperfections. She’d always assumed that when the time came to have sex with a man, it would be in dim light, or maybe even in the dark. But all the flashbacks she had of the night before involved bright bathroom light. God. Her face burned. At last she stopped, pulled out her phone, and used her taxi app. She was desperate to get home and check herself out, see if there were any signs of what had happened.

Half an hour later, Dolores was standing under a scorching-hot jet of water. There were several bruises on her legs, a huge one on her hip, and, worst of all, four fingerprints spanning almost the entire length of her upper arm. She placed her own fingers over them, trying to cover each print. But it was impossible – the hand was much larger than her own. Did Olsen grab me like that? It didn’t seem possible – he was always so gentle with her. But maybe mating was different. How did I get so goddamn drunk last night? I was being so careful! Drunk enough not to remember a man having sex with me. A man who doesn’t even want to be with me. But was it all my fault? Olsen had bumped into her at Clementine’s. She finished washing herself, got out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. She had been a little tipsy, but not drunk. She must have looked very different from how she felt then. So, he’d obviously taken one look at her and decided it was a good opportunity to take advantage of her. And he was probably planning to tell her the next morning, casually during breakfast, that it had happened “in the heat of the moment”. Just like their kiss. And that he was sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. Shame and anger coursed through her body.

A message popped up on her screen. It was an emoji of a hand, with thumb and forefinger touching, forming an O. And to reinforce the point, some words: Are you ok? She shut the app down and threw the phone on her bed. She wasn’t even going to answer. She was done with Olsen. She never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

* * *

Olsen sat on his bed, watching as the green dot beside Dolores’ profile disappeared, indicating that she’d gone from online to offline. She’d seen his message. And he could see from the GPS locator that she was at home. Just one of the many things she’d taught him over the past few weeks. He sighed. He owed everything to Dolores. His life in Hope Valley. Still being part of the clan. The fact that he now had the reading age of the average nine-year old. Hopefully she’d come around and realize that he’d never hurt her. All he wanted to do was protect her. And what she’d told him last night about the fire that had left her sweet face scarred made him burn with anger. He leapt to his feet. He was going to deal with that right now. He’d told her last night that there was no way that asshole was going to get away with what he’d done. Six months in jail. The human law was a joke.